Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1)

by Michelle Markey Butler

  He caught a three-legged stool with his foot and dragged it closer. “Sit.”

  I did. He went to the table by the privy door, where he’d left the candle, and poured water into the basin. Wetting a cloth, he handed it to me. “Shall I go first? I bet I’m a sight too.”

  I lifted the cloth tentatively to his cheek.

  “Ow!” he yelped melodramatically.

  Thus encouraged, I scrubbed harder.

  “The dirt. Just the dirt. Leave the skin.” His face contorted in exaggerated pain until I could not help but smile.

  Finally he took the cloth, touching his nose as if to make sure it was still there, both shoulders sagging in seeming relief at finding it.

  I giggled, then caught myself and waited in silence while he rinsed the cloth. Crouching beside me, he washed my face. Then putting the cloth aside, he handed me the comb, and settled on his knees, his back to me. “Do your worst.”

  Utor always braided his own hair. Despite myself, I was excited to have the chance to practice. Everyone in Bruster, man or woman, wore their hair long and braided; the noble families each had their own unique design. As the High King’s family, ours was especially complicated—nine strands, beginning at the forehead and weaving in the rest of the hair as it moved back. Our mother, as she had promised, had begun teaching me when I turned seven, which meant I had been practicing for about four months, but only on myself and our mother.

  I had to start over three times, and the result was unmistakably wobbly. Bits of hair were already staggering out in all directions. I thought he might do it over himself—it was a far sight from his own neat work. To be truthful, but for the combed-out cobwebs, it was not much of an improvement. But Utor merely tied a thin leather thong at the end. “Thank you.”

  He stood. “Your turn.”

  I looked up at him in sudden apprehension and awareness, and shook my head.

  He waited, my comb in his hand.

  My mama would not braid my hair today. She would not cut my bread at noon-tide, nor walk with me to the black sand shore after dinner, nor admire my care-cut letters in the wax tablet from my afternoon lessons. Utor had said it was over. But it was just beginning. A lifetime of losses, an absence every day.

  He squeezed my shoulder. “I know.”

  He unraveled my braid. Slowly. It had been our mother’s last touch upon me.

  But our father was waiting. A moment later I felt the comb, drawn through from my scalp to my back.

  His hands knew the braid well, and were quick. Before long the weight and warmth lifted as he tied the end. As it thumped back, I felt his hand brush the top of my head. “I’m not Mama. But I’ll take care of you. Better than I did today.”

  I looked up at him, blinking against a new barrage against my eyelashes. “You promise? As Prince?”

  If he noticed that it was the first time I had spoken, not just since he had found me but since the trouble began, he did not say so. “More. As the biggest brother.”

  I sniffed. This time, the drops did not come.

  Huricans were uncommon. I had never seen one. But our mother had told us about them. The last hurican to strike Bruster in living memory had come to shore the night I was born. Our mother told us how the wind had whipped the sea like the cook beat eggs, and flung water at the castle like curtains, howling so loud that they knew the new baby cried only from my open mouth and crease-closed eyes. Our father would laugh when she told this tale, tugging my braid and saying it was a fitting entrance for his wild-willed girl. Our mother would push his hand away—playfully, but not merely so. Maybe, she would say. Maudlin can be unruly. But in the midst of every hurican, no matter how fearsome its winds and clamorous its rain, there is a pause, a time of still gray quiet. If she is a storm, the calm heart must be there too.

  Maybe somewhere, our father would say. Or some time.

  It was quiet. I heard nothing but my own breathing and, lower and slower, Utor’s. The servants must have gone. People would return, as they must, in the morning, their voices and bodies filling the castle. But sunrise was a few hours away, and the High King was waiting.

  I stood and threaded my fingers with his. “Let’s go to Father.”

  ***

  Utor had declared me his personal charge. The newly-hired nursemaids were busy enough with our younger brothers. He probably thought he was easing my grief, and he was, but I could see now he’d been soothing his own as well. I became his shadow, and he taught me… everything. Knife throwing. Riding. How to fight someone larger. How to watch men’s eyes to see if they spoke truth.

  How to put our braid in my hair. Not an easy task. At seven, I could not even reliably comb out the tangles. He did that, his hands gentle, soothing. I cannot say truthfully that for a year or more, I put any substantive effort into learning. It was too much of a comfort to let him. Utor was the unbroken cord by which I finally found my way from darkness. It was almost as comforting to sit now, welcomed if perhaps not fully forgiven, and let him comb away snarls. But at last he handed me the comb and began to divide my hair.

  Having finished his wash, Hal sat in the chair where he had left his scrip.

  “Does Master Carlson bring a message from Ragonne?” Utor asked me softly in Brusterian.

  “No, lord,” Hal answered. In the same language.

  Chapter IV

  Utor’s fingers stilled as both our heads swiveled.

  Hal had spoken in Brusterian, with only the slightest Valenian accent tainting his words. Had been understanding and responding in Brusterian, I realized belatedly, since we entered the castle. How could he have spent nearly four months in my company and not mentioned knowing Brusterian?

  I recalled profane outbursts, assuming no one who might hear could understand. Maybe Hal did not know those Brusterian words. I’d certainly had to search for them. He might, though. His accent was nearly perfect, and his diction lacked the typical awkwardness. It was a difficult language. The few outsiders who did master enough to converse sounded like half-witted Brusterian children with a split tongue.

  I pressed my lips tight against questions that were not important at that moment. “You’ve kept that secret close.”

  He met my gaze unapologetically. “I have spent enough time around warriors to learn to never give up an advantage, however small.”

  Utor barked a laugh. “That’s so.” But he sobered quickly. “You truly have no message from King Philip?”

  “Why?” I did not quite shriek but was no longer able to tolerate knowing something was amiss in Bruster but not what. “What is to hand?”

  Utor pulled together the last strands of my braid. “The King of Ragonne means to invade Bruster.”

  “What?” I leapt from the stool, swinging around to face him.

  “So it seems.” His voice was calm. It had always been, no matter how I raged. “Ragonne approached the High King about buying boats. Many boats. Having his own men taught to control them. How to find their way through the sea. He offered a fortune but would not say why he wanted them. Naturally the High King refused. Now boats are missing from our port stops, and we have reliable information that Ragonne is gathering warriors and weapons.” He spread his hands. “The under-kings have been called. We hold counsel tomorrow.”

  “Arrogant. Warmongering. Fool.” I pressed the heels of both hands against my temples. Philip of Ragonne was a heedless idiot but Doctora Maudlin Bann was not far behind. I had known of Philip’s intent to buy boats and sail east. I had known he would approach the High King. I had known my father would refuse unless he knew Philip’s purpose. I had known Philip wouldn’t say why he wanted boats. But since I knew where Philip’s aggression was aimed, I hadn’t considered how his actions would seem to Bruster. I let my utter disgust with myself forth in the vilest Brusterian I knew.

  From Hal’s raised eyebrows, he did know those words.

  Even among allies, relations were often strained. Elbany and Bruster had the closest agreement, and that was depend
ent upon the good sense of the High King and the Roth. Little would be required, as was abundantly clear, to persuade Bruster that Ragonne, a supposed ally, would attempt conquest. Counsel had been called. My father needed to know about Saradena more urgently than I’d thought.

  His task would be difficult: to persuade the under-kings, in whom suspicion and distrust ran as deep as their courage, that the letter and tidings brought by their long-absent princess were trustworthy. Or when the Saradenians arrived, they would find targets already weary and worn, easy prey for their warriors. All their targets. If Bruster and Ragonne warred, Logan and Elbany would not escape the conflict, although I could not say with certainty whose side they would step to.

  I ran out of invective. Utor was quiet a moment. “Now I know you’re home, Maudlin.”

  I glared at him, the distilled ire in a sidelong glance which younger siblings learn and never forget. “Ragonne is not invading. At least not Bruster.”

  “How do you know?” Bafflement, not suspicion, filled his voice.

  I touched my belt pouch. “He’s going against them.”

  At his look of utter confusion, I remembered I hadn’t yet told him that more lands than Bruster had received a letter from Saradena. I began to explain but Utor held up a hand. “We should go to our King,” he said. “Twice told is time lost, and I suspect we have little to spare.”

  ***

  The walk back to the entrance to the King’s rooms seemed to take far longer than going to Utor’s room had. Ulf nodded respectfully as he opened the door for us. The Prince and those he brought were not kept waiting—at least not by this High King, who trusted his Prince.

  I had only a quick glance of him, sitting at his writing desk, before I, like Utor and Hal, bowed low before the High King of Bruster. It struck me again that my father should not have been surprised, and perhaps had not been, when I’d determined to study at Vere. He was the only literate king in the Three Lands. He could both read and figure, and had learned both fully, despite having received his instruction as a grown man. He had learned, and had his children taught, in defiance of the murmurings that such menial tasks were beneath the dignity of kings.

  “Lord,” said Utor, seeming to speak for us all, so I remained silent.

  It was as well I hadn’t tried to say anything. My father was before me in an instant. I didn’t consider myself a small woman—I had loomed over the delicate court ladies of Ferrant—but for the second time that day I found myself pulled clean off my feet. “Maudlin. My girl.”

  I surged into his embrace. Yes, oh yes, I loved this man, my father. Despite all, I loved him. He had sent me to Ferrant, to Francis, whom I tried to love and whose hands I came to fear. But he treated me no differently than my brothers. We were all weapons in his store to defend Bruster. He loved us, no doubt, but he loved Bruster more. I could not say he was wrong. He was King.

  When at last he set me down, still clasping my hands, and leaned back to look at me, I felt a twinge. The years had not sat as well upon him as on Utor. Still broad shouldered and lean waisted, he moved with the quickness and quiet of the warrior he’d always been, but his hair was more gray than brown now, and lines of care and weather had deepened in his cheeks.

  “Six years, Maudlin.” His voice was a touch deeper than Utor’s, greeting me with the same remonstrance. He squeezed my hands once more and released them. “Should I worry more about why it has been so long or what has brought you back?”

  I met his gaze. Utor was Prince, but our father was High King, and had been for many years. He had not supposed for a moment that I had returned, at this time and in this way, for no purpose but a homecoming.

  “I bring news, my King,” I said formally.

  His brows rose slightly, acknowledgement of what he’d expected, not surprise. He did not return to his writing desk, but stepped to the high seat of his office, laying a hand on the carved arm nearest him. I could see the device of Bruster, a snarling leoyong, one paw outstretched to strike, inlayed on the back in the mountain’s black stone, bright green stones for eyes. An identical chair, for the same purpose, stood in the hall beneath.

  “Philip of Ragonne is a fool,” I said.

  The King’s lips twitched. “That, alas, is not news.” He paused. “But you never said so, and I certainly never agreed.”

  “Of course, lord,” I said. “But he is not so great a fool as to think of attacking Bruster.”

  “Indeed.” His face shuffled to the attentive, non-committal, concealing expression so needful to his duties, which I admired but could not emulate. “What makes you believe so?”

  “Lord, I come most immediately from Vere but before that I was in Ragonne. I was there at the behest of the Roth.” I gestured at Hal. A spark touched my father’s eyes. He’d been wondering, apparently, when I would remember to introduce my companion. “This is Master Hal Carlson, a retainer of Philip’s.”

  “Two names,” my father said. “A Vere-trained clerk?”

  “No,” I said. “But he reads and writes like one.”

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “Lord,” Hal said, bowing once more.

  “Can you explain this puzzle? Two names like a scholar of Vere but not one?”

  “I could, lord, but I won’t.” Hal bowed, softening his refusal.

  My father smiled. “Later, perhaps. Ragonne, you say. Do you bring a message?”

  “No, lord.”

  “Too bad. I regret this fight. I have enough other matters to concern me.” His fingers tightened on the arm of the high chair. “But Philip will regret it more.”

  “He’s not coming here, lord,” I said.

  He frowned minutely. “There can be no doubt Ragonne is preparing for war. Philip gathers his forces. He’s making armor and weapons. He tried to buy boats. When we refused, boats were stolen.”

  “He plans to sail and attack,” I said. “But not Bruster.” I took out the Saradenian letter. “You should have received this in May.”

  The King’s gaze darted to Utor, as if wondering what the Prince already knew and thought, then went to the page his fingers had unrolled. His eyes swept the letter, eyebrows climbing, forgetting in the extremity of his surprise to keep his reactions from his face. His lips formed the unfamiliar name: Saradena?

  “Maudlin,” he said, very quietly, a moment later, “you are certain—certain—this is real?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I was in Elbany when the same letter came to the Roth. Logan and Ragonne received them also. Bruster’s went to Vere.”

  “If this arrived months ago, why did Honre not sent it to me?”

  “Vere has troubles of its own.” I could not keep sorrow from my voice. “Pedagno Olwen is dead.”

  Both he and Utor gasped. Magistre Ulton had been successful in keeping that news from reaching Reud. I’d wondered.

  “Magistre Poll is now Pedagno.” A fresh wave of sadness crested and fell. “Probably not for much longer. His Clerk, Magistre Ulton, means to seize control. The Pedagno suspects him of poisoning his food and having a hand in Pedagno Olwen’s death.”

  The High King lowered the letter. “You were in Vere. Is he correct?”

  “I...” I paused to steady my words. “He is.”

  The shadows in his eyes deepened. “You were in Vere as well?” he asked Hal.

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Does this charge seem credible to you?”

  “Yes, lord,” he said again. “The plot is subtle, and meant to go unnoticed, or at least unproved. But it is real.”

  The King rolled the letter and handed it to Utor, who set it on the writing table. “Wise High Kings hold their overlordship of Vere lightly.” His face set. “But in this matter, there will be a reckoning. Keeping this letter from us endangered Bruster.”

  For one wild moment, I thought he meant he would send warriors to Vere. But that was not what he had said. “What will you do?”

  “The Pedagno will know of my displeasure. Vere may quarrel amo
ng itself, but its struggles cannot be allowed to imperil Bruster.”

  “But, lord,” I said. “Pedagno Poll is not at fault. Pedagno Olwen received the letter, in the midst of illness and strife, and died not long thereafter. Pedagno Poll found it among his predecessor’s belongings—”

  “Maudlin,” he interrupted. I stiffened at the unmistakable reproach. “I am not unsympathetic to Pedagno Poll’s situation. I know what it is to have enemies among underlings. But my foremost—nay, my only concern—is Bruster. And Bruster has been endangered by Vere’s dereliction.” His lips thinned, and a moment passed before he continued.

  “It might be better if Magistre Ulton overthrew the Pedagno—” He raised a hand before I could speak. “If the new man proved more mindful of our defense. But—” His hand went higher, keeping me silent. “I do not wish it. A coup is dangerous. Rebellion spreads like pestilence. Like-minded others see, and water their hopes. But—” His voice rose as well, “My business with Vere will not be to bolster a Pedagno according to my preferences—or yours—but to rebuke, unmistakably and unforgettably, their error in not sending this letter the hour they received it.”

  “I was aware,” I said, when I mastered myself enough to speak, “Reud would not meddle in Vere’s concerns for any purposes but its own. But I had hoped, in this case, it might be otherwise.”

  “Maudlin...” my father’s voice softened marginally. “Of course you are fond of the Pedagno, and wish to aid him. I like him myself. But I am High King.”

  “Lord...” Utor said.

  The King turned, the end of his braid swinging out.

  “The letter went to Vere. Not Reud. When they come, they will sail to Vere.” Utor paused. “Or so it may be plausibly argued.”

  The King stroked his close-cropped beard, grayer yet than his hair. “Lastland’s defenses must be strong.”

  “Much stronger than Vere alone can provide,” Utor said.

  “Vere cannot be expected to bear the sole burden of defense against such an enemy,” the King said.

  “Of course not,” said Utor.

  “Reud must send warriors,” the King said.