The word gave Niclays pause.
Home had been nowhere for so long. His name was Roos after Rozentun—a sleepy town overlooking Vatten Sound, where no one would remember him. Nobody but his mother was left, and she despised him.
Truyde might care whether he lived or died, he supposed. He wondered how she fared. Was she still agitating for an alliance with the East, or quietly mourning her lover?
For a long time, home had been at the Mentish court, where he had royal favor, where he had fallen in love—but Edvart was dead, his household dissolved, his memory confined to statues and portraits. Niclays had no place there now. As for his time in Inys, it had been nothing short of calamitous.
In the end, home had always been Jannart.
“Jan died for this.” He wet his lips. “For the tree. I cannot walk away without knowing its secret.”
“You are Master of Recipes. Doubtless you will be granted time to study the tree of life,” Laya muttered. “If we find the elixir, I suspect the Golden Empress will take us north to the City of the Thousand Flowers. She will try to sell it to the House of Lakseng in return for an end to the sea ban. We could escape into the city, and from there we can flee on foot to Kawontay. You can take a few samples of the elixir with you.”
“On foot.” Niclays huffed a quiet laugh. “In the unlikely event that we survive that journey, what would we do from there?”
“There are Ersyri smugglers in Kawontay who operate in the Sea of Carmentum. We should be able to persuade them to take us across the Abyss. My family would pay them.”
There was no one who would pay for his passage.
“They would pay your way, too,” Laya said, seeing his face. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“You’re very kind.” He hesitated. “What will we do if there is no mulberry tree at the end of the path?”
Laya gave him a look.
“If they find nothing,” she said quietly, “then take to the sea, Niclays. It will be kinder than her rage.”
He swallowed.
“Yes,” he conceded. “I suppose it would.”
“We will find something,” she said, gentler. “Jannart believed in the legend. I believe he is watching over you, Niclays. And that he will see you home.”
Home.
He could give the elixir to any ruler he desired, and they would grant him protection from Sabran. Brygstad was where he most desired to go. He could rent a garret in the Old Quarter and make ends meet teaching alchemy to novices. He could find a little pleasure in its libraries, and the lectures in its university halls. If not there, then Hróth.
And he would find Truyde. He would be a grandfather to her, and he would make Jannart proud.
As the Pursuit struck into deeper waters, Niclays stayed beside Laya, and they watched the stars come out. Whatever awaited them, one thing was certain. He or his ghost would be laid to rest.
55
West
The Flower of Ascalon, a passenger ship that served the eastern coast of Inys, docked in the ancient trade city of Caliburn-on-Sea at noon. Ead and Margret began their ride across the Leas, following the frozen River Lissom.
Snow had fallen overnight in the north, and it lay across the fields like cream smoothed with a knife. As they rode, the commons doffed their hats and called out greetings to Margret, who smiled and waved at them. She would have made a fine Countess of Goldenbirch, had she been the elder child.
They pared away from the river and through the knee-deep snow. There were no laborers in the fields in high winter, when the land was too cold to till, but Ead kept her hood up nonetheless.
The Beck family had their seat in a great prodigy house named Serinhall. It stood around a mile from Goldenbirch, where Galian Berethnet had been born. The village itself was in ruins, but remained a site of pilgrimage in Virtudom. It lay in the shadow of the haithwood, which separated the Leas from the Lakes.
After hours of riding that left their faces windburned, Margret slowed her horse at the brow of a hill. Ead gazed across a white stretch of parkland. Serinhall towered before them, bleak and magnificent, boasting grand bay windows and high domed rooftops.
“Well, here we are,” Margret announced. “Do you want to go straight to Goldenbirch?”
“Not yet,” Ead said. “If Galian did hide Ascalon in this province, I think he would have told its keepers. It was his most valuable possession. The symbol of the House of Berethnet.”
“And you think my family has kept it secret from their queens all these centuries?”
“Possibly.”
Frowning, Margret said, “The Saint did come to Serinhall once, in the year Princess Sabran was born. If there was any evidence that he did leave the sword, then Papa would know it. He has made it his life’s work to know all there is to know about this estate.”
Lord Clarent Beck had been unwell for some time. Once a hale rider, he had taken a fall from his horse, and the injury to his head had left him with what the Inysh called mind fog.
“Come, then. No time to lose,” Margret said. A wicked glint came into her eye. “Care for a race, Lady Nurtha?”
Ead snapped the reins in answer. As her steed galloped down the hill and across the park, scattering a herd of red deer, Margret shouted something patently discourteous after her. Ead laughed as the wind blew down her hood.
She just beat Margret to the gatehouse. Servants wearing the badge of the Beck family were shoveling the snow.
“Lady Margret!” A reed of a man with a pointed beard bowed to her. “Welcome home, my lady.”
“Good day to you, Master Brooke.” Margret dismounted. “This is Eadaz uq-Nāra, Viscountess Nurtha. Would you kindly take us to the Countess?”
“Of course, of course.” Seeing Ead, the fellow bowed again. “Lady Nurtha. Welcome to Serinhall.”
Ead forced herself to nod, but this title would never sit easily on her.
She handed the reins of her horse to another servant. Margret walked with her through the open doors of the house.
In the entrance hall was a wall-length portrait. A man with ebon skin and grave eyes, wearing the tight doublet and hose that had been fashionable in Inys several centuries ago.
“Lord Rothurt Beck,” Margret said as they passed. “A figure in one of the tragedies of Inys. Carnelian the Third fell in love with Lord Rothurt, but he was already wed. And this”—Margret motioned to another portrait—“is Margret Ironside, my namesake. She led our forces during the Gorse Hill Rebellion.”
Ead raised her eyebrows. “Lord Morwe is marrying into a noble lineage indeed.”
“Aye. Pity the man,” Margret said wearily. “Mama will never let him forget it.”
Master Brooke led them through a veritable labyrinth of wood-paneled corridors and grand oak doors. All this space for two people and their servants.
Lady Annes Beck was reading in the great chamber when they entered. Already a tall woman, she wore an attifet that added several inches to her stature. Her brown skin was unlined, but threads of gray rippled through the spirals of her hair.
“What is it, Master Brooke?” She looked up and removed her eyeglasses. “Saint! Margret!”
Margret curtsied. “Not a saint just yet, Mama, but give me time.”
“Oh, my child.”
Lady Annes rushed open-armed to her daughter. Unlike her children, she had a southern accent. “I heard only this morning of your betrothal to Lord Morwe,” she said, embracing Margret. “I should shake you for accepting without asking our permission, but since Queen Sabran gave hers—” She beamed. “Oh, he has found a rare splendor in you, my darling.”
“Thank you, Mama—”
“Now, I’ve already ordered the finest satin for your gown. A nice rich blue would become you very well. My favorite mercer in Greensward is having the cloth shipped from Kantmarkt. You will wear an attifet, of course, with white pearls and sapphires, and you must marry in the Sanctuary of Caliburn-on-Sea, as I did. There is no place lovelier.”
“Well, Mama, it seems you have my wedding very much under control.” Margret kissed her on the cheek. “Mama, you remember Mistress Duryan. Now she is Dame Eadaz uq-Nāra, Viscountess Nurtha. And my dearest friend. Ead, may I present my mother, the Countess of Goldenbirch.”
Ead curtsied. She had met Lady Annes once or twice at court when the countess had come to see her children, but not for long enough for either of them to have left an impression.
“Dame Eadaz,” Lady Annes said a little stiffly. “Not four days ago, the heralds said you were wanted for heresy.”
“Those heralds were paid by traitors, my lady,” Ead said. “Her Majesty gives no credence to their words.”
“Hm.” Lady Annes looked her over. “Clarent always thought you would marry my son, you know. I do hope there was no improper conduct between you, though perhaps you are now a fit consort for the future Earl of Goldenbirch.” Before Ead could imagine an answer, the countess had clapped her hands. “Brooke! Ready the evening meal.”
“Yes, my lady,” came the distant reply.