by Alma Boykin
He tore off a bit of bread, touched it to the salt, and ate. “In the name of Godown, thanks for hospitality and rest.”
She bowed again and stepped gracefully out of the way, allowing him to enter. He ducked without thinking, then straightened. As his eyes adapted to the darkness, he saw a figure in an archpriest’s robes. “Yes, father?”
“It is with sorrow and joy that I bear news, imperial majesty. Archpriest Tan rests with Godown.”
“Thanks be to Godown for His mercy and grace.” Pjtor meant the words. Tan’s last years had been painful and difficult, Pjtor knew. He’d done what Godown called him to, as best he knew, and if age had made him stiff and snappish, well, Godown had mercy on the ill.
“Ameen. The council will meet to confirm the new Archbishop and appoint a new archpriest to the imperial household after the next Holy Day.”
“Very good, Father. Thank you for the news, and may Godown go with you.”
“And also with you, imperial majesty.” The priest moved out of the way, allowing Pjtor to get into the building. Pjtor handed coat and hat to a servant, allowed others to remove his dusty and dirty riding boots, and went to his quarters. There Boris, his valet, took the rest of his clothes and offered him water for washing. Pjtor made use of the basin of cool water, removing more of the dust. On the farm, he could rinse off in the creek, but no one in their right mind bathed downstream of the city. No one drank from the rivers, either, if they could avoid it, unless they purified the water first and then made tea to kill the flavors that caused illness. Even Pjtor knew that if you said two invocations of Godown of the Stars while boiling water, it drove the disease out of the water. Tea leaves or chokofee beans helped as well. Tea, mint tea, waited after Pjtor finished rinsing out his beard and mustache. Which reminded him of something else he wanted to do . . .
But not that afternoon. No, he needed to plan. And he had returned to Muskava in order to accept the gold and fur tithe of the western forest men and their families. That took priority over everything but naming the new archbishop. Without gold and furs Pjtor could not have an army or navy.
Two days later he met the representatives of the western villages. Pjtor preferred them to many of his subjects. They seemed less deferential, still respectful but not cringing like the people of Muskava. Of course, the people of the city had seen Pjtor’s anger, the bodies, the head still mounted beside the eastern gate. But the westerners lived on their own, answering to few lords, making a life as few had done since after the first wave of Harrier attacks drove the people of NovRodi north into the forests and swamps. A few had run far to the west, almost to the foot of the great mountains, and emerged only slowly, led back by the church. They gathered gold from the streams and furs from the forests, as well as precious wood and a few gems. They farmed in the clearings around their villages when the weather allowed. A hundred years after their first appearance from the forest, the imperial family had taken them in as free peasants, providing them with grain and other supplies in exchange for the furs and gold. The crown had been scrupulously fair with the people of the forests, giving them full value for their gold and furs, and limiting other taxes. In exchange the foresters gave the Svendborgs ferocious loyalty. Pjtor had reaffirmed that loyalty by personally seeing that the church sent priests to tend to the people: Sara had not.
Pjtor met with the western men just after dawn prayers. Their leader, a man almost as big as Pjtor, or so he seemed in his brown long coat and shaggy hair and beard, spread his arms where he knelt. “Oh great emperor, blessed of Godown, ruler of NovRodi and protector of the faithful, hear your miserable servants and grant us mercy for our poor gifts to you.”
“Rise, oh servants of Godown, for all who labor to help the faithful are worthy in the eyes of Godown and his ministers. Nothing done for the Holy One, the maker of forest and plain, is unworthy when done with a good heart.”
The men stood, as always their intent gaze reminding Pjtor of hunting cats and other predators. But Pjtor was now a warrior as well as ruler, and they did not intimidate him as they did so many others. “Many thanks are due you for your labors. Have you ought that you desire? If so it shall be granted, if legal and within the power of man.” From this point on the words changed to the actual needs of the men and their families, instead of ritual.
The speaker bowed again. “No, imperial master, we have no requests grantable by men, only of Godown. Your generosity to our people has already been shown, most gracious master.”
That’s different. Something set Pjtor on point, like one of the great dardog hunting hounds, the ones that stood as tall as a half-grown child. “What do you seek from Godown? The prayers of the imperial household shall join yours in humble petition.”
“That the most mighty Godown, creator of all worlds, soothe the land. Earth shakes have cracked the ground near the mountains, imperial master, and good water has turned foul, while foul water has ceased flowing in other places.”
Ay yay, holy Godown, what does that mean? We’ve felt no shakes here! But he stood over two months’ hard travel from the mountains, and much could disappear over that distance. Could it be something beyond the mountains? “Our prayers will join yours, that Godown soothe the land and restore peace.”
“Thank you, most worthy imperial master. If this most miserable one might ask, are the stories of new lands to the south true?” He seemed eager, reminding Pjtor once more of the great hounds.
“They are, but the land remains raw, unplowed and dangerous. The Harriers haunt it still.”
“Ah.” Several of the men nodded and made complicated gestures like blessings or the Easterners’ saint signs. “Thank you, imperial master, most generous and wise lord of NovRodi.” After a little more back and forth Pjtor dismissed the men. They would find a feast waiting in their guest quarters when they returned, as was traditional. As they left, he heard one saying, “So the prophesy is true—the earth shakes and new lands appear! Perhaps the world is stretching.”
Pjtor bit his tongue to keep from smiling at the foolish image. Then he recalled that odd bit in the ancient book about the Split Sea and the mountains around it, where fire supposedly oozed from the very ground. Godown makes all things, and so long as it does not come to NovRodi, fire out of the ground is not my concern.
The furs and gold were his concern, and his delight. Almost ten kilos of gold, powder and nuggets, sat in fat leather bags in the treasury, and a wagon and a half of furs, ranging from the black and white digger pelts that made winter hood linings that never frosted to the fine black and blue-washed silver pelts of the lagomophages. Strella had already found the furs and she inspected, stroked, and sniffed the pelts. “Leave a few for trade, sister,” he called to her as he approached.
She bowed, but not before he saw her stick her tongue out at him. She never took anything he did not approve of first. Indeed, he noticed that she’d pulled some of the thick winter lagom pelts and one digger pelt, but none of the most expensive and rare furs. “You may rise.” He took his time judging the skins, then stopped. “What in St. Simon’s name?”
The spotted brown pelt was as large as his outstretched arms. It had been tanned with the head on, as well as the tail and paws, and it had to be the second largest pelt Pjtor had ever seen. “I do not know, imperial majesty, but I do not want to meet the beast that wore it in life.” She bent over and looked at the teeth. “This would terrify a dardog.”
One might not, but two certainly would be a match for a dardog pack. Pjtor claimed the enormous hide. On a sudden whim, he picked it up and draped it so his hands were under the forepaws and the head rested on his own. “Grrrr.” He lunged at her, pawing the air. “Grrrr!” Strella’s laughter filled the enclosure, a most delightful reward for his effort. The pelt was heavy, and the leather under the fur quite impressive now that he looked at and felt it. I need to send some extra goods with the foresters, for the man who tanned this. He is a master.
Pjtor ordered more salt and fine cloth sen
t to the foresters, along with a silver framed image of St. Annie attributed to one of the first post-Fire masters. St. Annie, protector against sudden death and especially against dardogs, seemed appropriate, Pjtor decided.
Thinking of the furs and gold sweetened Pjtor’s mood. So did the honey the men had brought, a very rich treat with hints of wildness in the flavor. Both proved to be necessary after the anointing of the new archbishop.
First Pjtor and the clergy of Muskava as well as the ordinary believers all fasted starting at noon the day before the ceremony. Pjtor attended the first hours of the all-night vigil, then went to the palace and slept. He dreamed of dardogs and ground that split open to spew forth Harriers, making him wake up twice, drenched in sweat both times. He’d not had such nightmares in several years, and he whispered prayers to Godown and asked St. Klara to guide him to clear vision. After that, the liturgy came almost easily.
All the candidates stood in a row facing the gates of grace and the altar at St. Molly-of-the-Fields, once the ancient private imperial family chapel, now a lavishly-decorated church. Pjtor stood behind, along with most of the clergy not on the elders’ council. He let his mind drift a little after the opening invocation because everything was for the priests. The paintings inside the church fascinated him, and some had to date from the Landers, including one of St. Molly wearing a crown and a blue cape, with stars floating above her head. She had a child on her lap as a sign of her favor for the young, a role the Easterners assigned to St. Foy, Pjtor had learned. Well, all NovRodi needed help.
“Most Holy Godown, who guides His people like a shahma herder and protects His flock like a shepherd, give to Your anointed wisdom and strength for the tasks You have assigned, and grant them discernment and care in separating their will from Yours.” Pjtor didn’t twitch, at least not where others could see his reaction. Another lesson he’d learned from Sara. The priest continued, then lifted a staff of office off the altar, held it in his two hands, turned, and bowed toward the gates of grace, acknowledging the source of all power and authority. He turned back, facing the gathered clergy and nobility and others, rotated the staff so the shahma-herd’s hook was on top, and presented it to a short man in dark blue vestments. Adam of Westring bowed and accepted the staff. He knelt, and two priests removed his simple round cap, made the sign of Godown on his forehead with holy oil, then replaced the cap with the taller and more ornate headcover and hat of the Archbishop. Archbishop Adam turned and the congregants bowed as one.
“Th—” Adam paused and swallowed. “Thanks be to Godown for His blessing. All honor and praise to Godown who knows our hearts better than do we ourselves. I crave your prayers and blessings, for I am not worthy to lead Godown’s flock.”
“You shall have them,” the watchers replied in unison.
From that point on the liturgy followed the usual practice for the season, except that Pjtor did not participate as a leader, only as a congregant. From what he’d been told, this dated back to the days even before Godown’s people first reached Colplatschki, when only the priests participated in the service as more than quiet witnesses. The priest explaining the liturgy professed no idea as to why it had been that way, and Pjtor could not think of any, unless the instruments of Grace had been used differently so that the congregants had been kept farther away from the altar or something. His concern was the present and future, not the past. Besides, the history of the liturgy was a priest thing, not an emperor thing. He considered his heart and the condition of his soul, and took the elements with a clean conscience.
Today was for the priests and the people in general, and for the new Archbishop to bless each church and chapel in Muskava. The next day he’d meet with Pjtor in his secondary role as spiritual guide for the imperial family. As a result, once the liturgy came to an end, Pjtor, Strella, and a few others returned to the palace and enjoyed a very large midday meal, but not a formal court banquet. In the future Archbishop Adam would be invited. Today it was family only, plus a few favored court members, and Pjtor enjoyed the novelty of not wondering about who was trying to displace whom.
That afternoon Pjtor napped and then went to his workshop, a small building within one of the inner courtyards of the newer part of the old palace. He kept a full set of woodworking tools at both Hornand and Muskava, plus his traveling tool chests, and enjoyed making things. The sweet scents of wood and tool polish perfumed the snug building, and even the smoky air coming through the open windows didn’t overwhelm the seedar scent. Pjtor relaxed. He did not have to fight his own thoughts when he worked the lathe pedal and held the gouge or chisel against the wood, carving off long, fine shavings that curled into sweet-smelling strips of white. Some of the women collected the longest shavings to use in making baskets, and the rest went to be used as fire starter. Pjtor finished the chair leg he was working on and set about mounting it on the seat, tapping the dark little iron-wood wedge into the top of the leg, pushing the wood apart and locking it into place. If he hit too hard, he risked splitting the wood and having to drill the entire piece out and start over. He hated that. This time it did not split, and he dabbed a bit of hide glue onto the top of the leg and set a plug of wood in, lining up the grain with that of the seat. He turned the chair so the legs faced down and set it on the floor. It looked even and did not shift when he tried to rock it. Pjtor held his breath a little and sat carefully, easing his weight onto the seat and the legs. He heard a soft creak, but nothing moved. He sat more firmly and the chair held firm. Oh good. No surprises. After that, putting the rest of it together would be relatively easy.
He’d brought back hundreds of tools as well as craftsmen from his stay in New Dalfa. Already he saw the changes in the furnishings gracing the palace and some of the finer houses, and in how wagons and other things were made. Now, in addition to ax and adz and wedge, his men had planes and chisels and drills, big drills, and his smiths were learning how to make more tools and finding ways to change them to fit the different wood of NovRodi. Muskava needed a true sawmill, one of the water-powered ones, but that would come later. For now, they had small tools and with small tools you could make bigger and bigger tools. Pjtor dusted off the chair and set it out of the way. I like having furniture that fits me, even if I do have to make it myself. He didn’t, not anymore, but he liked working with wood. His mind didn’t run away from him when he had tools in his hands. And it worked or it didn’t, right then and there. He didn’t have to wait a year or two or more to see the results. The chair held or he found himself sitting on the floor again. Maybe he’d make a smaller version for Strella, assuming the back and arms of this one worked. Some of his attempts at bending wood had been more exciting than successful. It had only taken one surprise to teach him not to lean his head over freshly boiled and bent wood as he pushed it into the shaping blocks.
The next afternoon, following his meeting with Archbishop Adam, Pjtor hauled out a wedge and a maul and split an ironwood log by himself. When he finished, he was hot, sore, dusty, and less inclined to break the first person to cross his path. He took a steam in the steam-hut, splashing water on the hot rocks with ferocious strength, then rinsed the last of the wood dust off and joined Strella in the Homefold. She waited until he finished an entire pot of mint water and had started on the summer beer before venturing, “I take it your meeting did not go as well as hoped, honored brother.” She’d attended the chapel service Adam led, then had retired with the other women.
“In short, no.” He dipped brown bread into the thick, creamy redroot soup and ate. “He has ideas about the role of the church and the emperor that go beyond Nikolas’s reforms. He also believes that unless we,” he waved his hand, indicating all the people, “take up arms against he heretics immediately, Godown will punish us.”
Strella pursed her lips. “I thought the Harriers were already seeing to that.”
“Indeed. Although Lord Tabor’s people drove off two heavy raids with only a few people killed and some cattle stolen, so perhaps Godown ha
s other plans for them. Or the Harriers will return in force and remove them from NovRodi forever.” Alas, Pjtor sighed, he’d have to do something about them next year. Probably order them to convert or leave. Would they try drowning themselves as they had a few years before? Better do it in the spring then, so the rivers would carry away the bodies before they could rot. Damn, they needed to see reason and come back to the church. He needed living men and women, not fish food. Why had Godown not turned their hearts? Were they too far gone into error, so far that Godown had turned His back on them?
“What does he want you to do for the church?”
He blinked. “What? Oh, he implied that as archbishop he has more authority over spiritual matters than I do, which is true, and that the emperor should listen more closely to his council and the council of the church as a whole.”
“And what does that council include?”
Pjtor picked up his bowl and finished the soup. “Greater respect for the rights of the church, fewer questions about the monasteries, and more tithes, as well as restricting the right of worship of foreign guests in NovRodi. He wants their books confiscated.”
Strella’s eyes bulged and she took a deep breath. “All their books or just the religions books?”
“All of them, so the clergy can go through and destroy all those that are inappropriate. Archbishop Adam would decide what is appropriate, and they would be returned, along with uncorrupted copies of the Writ.” That alone had lost the man a great deal of favor in Pjtor’s eyes. His response to Pjtor’s observation about his need to remarry had not improved Pjtor’s mood.
“It is for the Church to decide when a couple may break the bonds of matrimony, not for one party alone,” the short man had stated. “Just as it is for the church to declare when one or the other party may seek the blessed state of marriage again, unless a spouse has gone to Godown and the family needs support.”
