Golden Summer (Colplatschki Chronicles Book 10)

by Alma Boykin

  I need a son. She would never have had to fight if Sara had not tried to be emperor while Isaac, may his soul rest, and I were young. Not again. I must have another son. Pjtor is strong, but things happen, Godown forbid. Pjtor’s eyes went back to the map and he followed the old border up the western edge of the mountains beside the Cut Sea, the place of boiling water and earth shakes, or so the oldest books claimed. A “rift” they said, although what that meant Pjtor had no idea. Perhaps it was a mis-copying of “ripped,” or an old word for rip. The mountains met the heavy forest in the north and then the great snow shield that he had heard of but that no one living had ever seen. Rivers flowed east from those mountains, and from the forests, into the White Sea. Pjtor looked again at the mouth of the Colrodo River, huge and slow with ice this time of the year. I need a true port there, or to the south, where real ships can come and go. And away from Muskava.

  He hated Muskava. The ancient city trapped him, had trapped him twice, and he despised the old men, old ways, and old thinking. The palace felt cramped and close even in summer and by the end of winter he was ready to kill anyone who displeased him. Stout wood and stone walls kept the world outside, protecting, but also penning in. Pjtor preferred the foreign district outside the walls, open and airy with clean gardens and open streets.

  First the Harriers, then his city, then trade to the south, send more peasants to settle the west, and clean out the so-called True Spirits and their heresy before Godown struck him for failing to protect the true faith from internal dangers as he guarded it from threats from outside. Pjtor folded the map, checked that the cabinets with dangerous books remained locked, and turned to leave.

  As sense of absolute peace and joy built into his mind, and a wave of colors, pale at first, shimmered in front of his eyes. He opened the door and sat on the first bench he found. He could not be afraid as the colors darkened and a faint hint of Godown’s promised peace wrapped his heart and mind. Pjtor felt his body starting to go limp. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he remained sitting but could not move. He’d felt more rested after the great battles for the fortress on the Sweetwater Sea. Irritation and anger rose as they did after every spell of Blessed Toni’s fire. Damn it.

  Light and fast footsteps came up the hall, followed by heavier boots. “Ah, imperial master, allow your most humble servant,” a woman’s voice said.

  “Yes,” he managed. Damn he hated the aftermath of the attacks!

  Alsice and a manservant helped him stand, and they walked slowly to his quarters. He dismissed Boris while Alsice and the other servant got him to the bed. “Go, man,” Pjtor ordered and the servant obeyed. Alsice stripped off his boots, opened his coat and shirt, and lightly wiped his face with warm water. He dozed off.

  When he woke several hours later, he felt better, the headache had faded, and he found Alsice mending something, probably one of Strella’s dresses. Alsice never wore anything that fancy. She’d been a slave of the Harriers, one of the very few believing women they didn’t kill. Pjtor’s men had freed her from the Harriers and Pjtor had saved her from General Poliko’s rough ways. Pjtor had waited to take her to bed until she was ready, and had been rewarded with a very hard working, attractive, and steady maid and bed warmer. She’d also learned what helped him recover from the attacks. He’d only tumbled her two or three times since their return from the plains, out of deference to Godown’s rules about marriage. But now, perhaps, he should make her his official mistress. That would certainly keep court occupied for the season. The thought made him smile.

  But not now. Not until Tamsin was safely divorced and had reached the convent without trouble. The wagons should arrive in a day to take her and her sister-price away. He’d already paid her mother and surviving uncle the bride-price back, since the divorce was because of failure to bear a second child rather than immorality.

  Now he needed to meet with his general and admiral and plan. After he slept a little longer.

  The sanctuary of the church of Godown of the Endless Stars remained unchanged from Pjtor’s earliest memories. As the other worshippers filed into the dark, candle-touched space Pjtor bowed to the altar, then performed the six prostrations and three signs of blessing. Without thinking he glanced to his left, but his half-brother no longer stood there. Two years had passed since Isaac’s weak body failed him and his spirit had returned to Godown. Now Pjtor stood alone in the front rank of nobles, facing Archpriest Toman. We need a new archbishop. Old Nikolas had gone to Godown the previous summer, leaving a hole in the administration and authority of Godown’s church. But today, the feast of the Mercy of Godown marking the end of the long winter, was not the time to be making any decisions.

  “In Godown’s name, be blessed,” Toman sang, sounding a little weak on the low note to Pjtor’s ear.

  Pjtor joined the refrain, “Blessed be God-down.”

  “In Godown’s name, seek mercy.”

  “Blessed be God-down.”

  “In Godown’s name, be blessed.”

  “Blessed beeeeeeee God-dooooown.”

  The words almost came easily, so long as Pjtor paid attention. He inhaled, breathing deep of the sweet spring incense, eyes on the gilt and silver gates that separated everyone but Godown’s anointed from the instruments of grace. To either side, ornate wooden screens decorated with pictures of the saints and of Godown’s works marked off the holy space, while above rose the dark blue dome of heaven, dotted with more gold and silver to show the stars. It needed more stars, Pjtor decided, to truly match the sky in summer on the plains, so deep he thought he would fall into it.

  “—and thanks to Godown, holder of the Sun, maker of the stars, Lord of the endless spaces between worlds.” Pjtor missed the first words and rejoined quietly, lest his voice’s absence be missed. “Blessed be Godown, greater than the stars, wider than the universe, brighter than the brightest stars, merciful maker of all creation, and blessed be His chil—dren.”

  Archpriest Toman needed better breath control. Otherwise Pjtor had no problems with the man as a liturgist. Well, Pjtor was not perfect, either, singing voice notwithstanding, and if he did not keep his mind within the walls of Godown of the Endless Stars, he’d cause a problem. Pjtor bowed deeply as one of the secondary priests held up the gold-decorated copy of the Holy Writ. “Behold the word of Godown.”

  “Thanks be to God—down.”

  “Hear the words of Godown for his children, ‘Godown is my shepherd, I shall need for nothing. I am a shahma of His herd.’” The familiar words came easily to Pjtor’s memory, but he blinked. That was not the usual reading for the feast of Godown’s Mercy. It was an alternate approved text, to be certain, but what was Godown doing? For the next two hours Pjtor listened carefully, attentive and focused. Godown did not speak to him, but then when had Godown spoken directly to anyone since the Great Fires? It was not until he assisted with the instruments of grace that Pjtor caught a possible hint of what Godown desired.

  Pjtor rinsed his hands three times in the basin of water, allowed a junior priest to dry them, and then bowed as the gates of grace opened, allowing him and Toman to enter the chamber of holiness. Here they blessed the oil and bread, bowing low and offering thanks as well as asking pardon for any shortcomings before they touched the blessed instruments. Pjtor carried the bread, a large loaf of the finest white bread, wrapped in green, gold, and white layers of cloth. Toman, in green and gold vestments, carried the silver and gilt flask of scented oil. “Behold the visible signs of Godown’s grace and mercy. Come, all ye who labor and Godown will give you rest,” Toman sang.

  “Come all who profess Godown as Lord, all who truly love and honor Him. Come as children, equal in Godown’s eyes, come and be blessed,” Pjtor sang.

  The congregants, from priests to nobles to soldiers to service-slaves from the palace formed two rows, coming forward in pairs without preference or rank, men and women mixing as they did not do during the rest of the liturgy. They seemed to emerge from the dark shadows
and haze of the incense-filled sanctuary, approaching, kneeling to be anointed with oil and served with bread, then rising and disappearing once more. A woman in a plain gown and simple head cover came forward, bowed, and knelt. As the Toman bent to anoint her, Pjtor caught a hint of color around her. His breath caught as the color shifted, almost forming a ring like the crown empress-consorts wore in the early pictures. Toman stepped to the side and Pjtor’s body followed the ritual as his brain scrambled to catch up. He offered the loaf and Alsice took a small piece. The ring of color disappeared and now he could see a plain band of material holding her headdress in place. She bowed and left, giving way to another person.

  When over half the congregants had been served, a junior priest took the loaf and Pjtor bowed to the Writ, then joined the line. At the greatest feasts he went last, a reminder that in the end the servant and the emperor both came as equals before Godown. Actually, Pjtor had a suspicion that the servant had it a little easier, because she had less responsibility to Godown for the safety and salvation of other people. Godown gave no man more than He knew they could bear, but as the saying went, some days Pjtor wished that Godown did not trust him so much. But not this day. Today he served by serving, and so he bowed then knelt, feeling the soft touch of oil on his forehead and tasting the sweet, light bread as it melted on his tongue, breaking the fast that had begun at sundown the night before.

  The feast of the Mercy of Godown also marked the end of the great winter fasts, the season of dearth and darkness. It would be a while before the first spring foods appeared in large quantities, but they would come. Someday, when we have the south and can grow food there, the winter fasts will no longer be how we keep from starving, Pjtor thought after the benediction, as he walked back through the warm sunshine to the palace. The old books, some of them forbidden to anyone but Pjtor and the priests, talked about the Church putting the winter fasts in place as the “little hunger” in order to prevent a “great hunger.” Well, Pjtor had a great hunger right now, one that physical food alone could fill. And a different hunger, but that he’d learned to curb as well. That was optional. Food, his stomach informed him as servants removed his outdoor boots and offered him soft-soled house boots, was not.

  Life is so much better without Sara he thought yet again that afternoon, toying with a precious cup made of plaztik mounted in silver and cat-eye stones. After her confinement in the convent and the demise of her incompetent fool of a lover, Pjtor’s servants had found all sorts of precious treasures in the pair’s quarters, some of which had disappeared from the imperial treasure books or had never been entered. For that alone Pjtor would have killed Grigory again, and he hoped that Godown had kept a detailed list of the lout’s failures. For now, he watched the women talking, listened to the musicians playing quietly at the end of the great feasting chamber, and wondered what next?

  Other than the next course, which proved to be several wonderful smoked fish, served with preserved and spiced fish and yard-fowl eggs and a sprinkling of the first spring herbs, raised in protected gardens in the foreign district. Strella, seated beside Pjtor, clasped her hands with glee as the manservant gave her a portion only a little smaller than her brother’s. He preferred meat, but she loved smoked fish and would probably have eaten her weight in it if she could, or so Pjtor teased her. She denied his claims but not too vehemently. Now she brushed the ends of her headcover back out of the way, making certain the soft white and green embroidered material stayed clean, before tucking into the fish. Pjtor did not really savor food, probably because of eating with soldiers and sailors, but the fish tasted good and he liked the squeak and pop of the fish eggs as his teeth closed on them. Everyone ate happily, even those who usually preferred finer dishes. Compared to the last month’s meals, this was a fine dish indeed. The yard birds had just started laying again. At the end of the long tables stretching away from his, he noticed Tabor inspecting the dish carefully before eating, and wondered why. Oh, because the heretics drowned themselves, that was it, and rumor had it that their supporters tended to avoid fish for several weeks after.

  Strella leaned over and murmured, “Tabor’s wife was terribly sick last summer. A cook did not know how to tell if a river fish was still fresh, and she got the purging flux, so bad she gave birth early. He’s been nervous around fish since he came back and heard the news.”

  “Ah. Thank you, I can see why he would be concerned.” No one in their right mind ate much meat in summer for that very reason.

  Pjtor finished his portion and sat back, drinking a light winterberry spirit and watching the women of court. They adapted much faster to his new rules than most of the men did, and he noticed a few greybeards glaring, or doing their best to ignore the women seated around them. I wonder what Tarnoii would say about the women of the Sea Republics? Probably flee, especially if one of the professional woman approached him or was at dinner with him. One of Pjtor’s first orders after coming into his own had been to open the homefolds, allowing any woman of sufficient rank to attend social functions. It was not new, despite what Tarnoii and others complained, but going back to the ways before the Harriers, when women had mixed with men. Strella enjoyed it, so did others, but some women did not. Pjtor would not require them to attend, just encouraged it, and welcomed the very few foreign women who accompanied their husbands to full events and fairs. Granted, that was in part because their fashions allowed him to enjoy their charms without being obvious about it. The long, high-collared underdress and overdress of the NovRodi women left everything to the imagination. It was graceful and practical, but Pjtor preferred a more detailed view.

  The men’s robes bothered him even more, especially in winter. Robes and beards, both long and flowing and all too often dirty with only Godown knew what living in them. Supposedly Godown had ordered men to grow long beards as a sign of their manliness and dedication to Him, but Pjtor had yet to find that passage of scripture. And Godown said nothing about not bathing in summer or not using the steam bath in winter. Something else Pjtor would change, and soon. He was just as happy that Archpriest Tan was too frail to come to the end of season feast this year. The cleric refused to bathe in winter or to use the steam bath during fasts, and he never cleaned what few teeth remained in his head. Pjtor could no longer tolerate the man standing close beside him.

  But he was absent tonight, the food was good, the company acceptable, and he did not need to remember anything or to keep his thoughts from wandering. Although, he thought as he sat back, allowing the metal plate to disappear and be replaced with a smaller “plate” made of dark, honey spice bread containing spiced dried fruit, the wall hangings needed to be removed or replaced. They’d been there since he could first recall using the great dining hall for fighting lessons as a small boy, and the two closest to the old hearth could barely be told from the wall, they had darkened so much. Thanks be to Godown that clay and ceramic stoves had been rediscovered not long after the flight from the Harriers. Was that rumor true, about some people who had lost even basic civilization and had become no better than animals with fire? Probably not. He ate the fruit, drank the rest of the spirit and the light tea that followed, and chewed the dense, spicy bread plate.

  Strella had no shame and let her enjoyment of the food show. He smiled as she gnawed a corner of the bread-plate. Dignity did not trouble her over-much, but then after this much food and spirits, even Lord Tabor had relaxed and seemed on the verge of smiling, perhaps. This was far, far better than Sara’s banquets, although Pjtor had to admit that he’d enjoyed watching the lords in her court knife each other verbally. He’d learned a great deal at this table, and had used all of it against Sara and her allies. But that was then, and Godown willing, he’d never have to deal with another uprising against himself.

  The next morning Pjtor drilled with his soldiers in the cold morning air, rode out of the city and back, and then went to the imperial work room, a sort of combined small audience chamber and library not far from the main council chamber.
A stack of papers waited for him, along with a monk. Pjtor wished for an instant that Geert had come, but there were limits to what Pjtor could ask of the man from New Dalfa, across the sea. Church matters lay outside those limits.

  The monk bowed and Pjtor gestured for him to return to his seat. He was present to answer questions and to pray. Pjtor had already prayed, but offered another quick private invitation for Godown to send him wisdom, a sign, or both. The papers held the names of those priests the church council believed were capable of serving as archbishop and as archpriests. The previous winter had seen a wave of deaths and retirements and Pjtor wondered if Godown were taking a harvest in order to prepare the field for a new crop. Mysterious are the ways of Godown, who orders all things for good for those who follow Him. Blessed be Godown. Although not a member of the clergy per se, as emperor of NovRodi Pjtor held a great deal of authority within and over the church, and had been consecrated in ways similar to a deacon or junior priest. Grant me wisdom, please, Godown, or at least keep me from losing my temper. It was best to give Godown at least one easy option, Pjtor had long ago decided.

  Two time candles had burned down before Pjtor finished reading and considering the men named by the council. To his mild dismay he liked only two, and one of those was being raised to archpriest, and thus was not a candidate for archbishop yet. He’d set aside two of the episcopal nominations easily: Archpriest Tarn was too old and ill, and Bishop Melchior of Wendland held views that edged too close to the heretics’ theology for Pjtor to be comfortable elevating him to head of the church in NovRodi. The man had a fine reputation for personal piety and as a good shahma-herd for his flocks, but Pjtor could not risk offending Godown. If he came back to the reforms instituted by Archbishop Nikolas and the council, then Pjtor would elevate him in an instant. That left four episcopal candidates: Archpriest Rudy of Muskava, Archpriest Thomas of White Rocks in the far north, both heads of monastic groups, and Bishops Adam of Westering and Robert of Marshton.