Golden Summer (Colplatschki Chronicles Book 10)

by Alma Boykin

  “Woman mount up now!” He heard snorting and turned the horse, putting it between Alsice and the furious, large, mother pfiggy. He drew his saddle pistol and removed the safety patch. Dear Godown please may she not attack please please. Even dardogs gave enraged pfiggy sows a healthy distance.

  Squeeeal! A black and white mass broke from the blue-needle trees, running straight for Geert. He kicked his horse and the gelding wasted no time getting clear. The angry sow continued past man and horse, heading around the pond to reach the little pfiggies climbing out of the water. Pjtor put the safety patch back on the pistol, holstered it, and turned to yell at Alsice.

  He didn’t have to. All color had drained from her face and she bowed in the saddle until her forehead touched her knee, somehow not losing her balance. “Forgive me, most gracious imperial master, forgive your slave. I— I did not think. Spots shied from the pfiggies, spooking them into running and I almost lost my seat. I dismounted to check the belly strap and did not think about the sow. Forgive your slave, please.”

  This is not the time or place to beat the mother of your children. Not now, not here. She made a mistake but no one is hurt. Pjtor did not yell. He did not raise his voice. Instead he said, “I believe we should return to the manor,” turned his horse and did so.

  Later, after she had fed their daughter and after the late meal, Pjtor said, quietly, “Please be more careful in the future. I forgive you. Do not do it again.”

  She kissed the toe of his house boots.

  “And do not do that again, either. You are a free woman, not a service-slave. You are my mistress, soon to be my wife, if you will. Quit groveling,” he caught himself before he scared her again.

  “I will, please, my lord.”

  He’d raised her to consort, more or less, after she delivered their son. The baby had been born with hair as dark as Pjtor’s own and he considered it a good sign. Now, if only Young Pjtor would see that, his father sighed, life would be better. The boy’s tutor had explained to him the reason his father had set his mother aside and the need for at least one brother, but the boy refused to hear reason. He was eight years old! He should have understood and accepted the fact. That he resembled Sara, lightly built and pale-eyed, made things harder for his father. Once Alsice and I are wed, then he’ll understand. All the children are the same after that. But that would come in a few weeks, before Pjtor rode south to see his new lands and what the army had accomplished. Pjtor helped Alsice stand and kissed her. She returned his affection in full measure and more, something he appreciated.

  Alsice settled onto one of the high-backed benches near the ancient open fireplace in the hearth room. She began working on some sewing, keeping her hands busy. She wore a simple brown head cover and dress, both plain but made of the finest cloth Pjtor could find. She preferred to let Strella set the tone for clothes and Pjtor applauded the women’s sense of propriety, although he had insisted that Alsice lower her neckline. She didn’t reveal as much as the foreign women did, but it still caused whispers among the wives and daughters of the nobles of court. “When are you going south, my lord?”

  “Three weeks, Godown willing, just after the furs and gold arrive.” That he insisted on doing himself, and there wasn’t much point in leaving earlier. The army had gone south a month before and the grass would need time to regrow. And for the Dawn River to fall from spring flood, allowing supplies to move by barge and boat. The winter had been warm and the westerners would be coming early so they could get back to their holdings early. A bitter winter followed a warm one, as everyone knew. Godown balanced all.

  Two weeks later, after returning to Muskava, Pjtor and Alsice stood in St. Molly-in-the-Fields. Archpriest Boris faced them, holding the bands of marriage. They’d not been betrothed, so the ceremony combined both. Alsice was known to be fertile and had delivered live and healthy children, so that did not pose an objection for anyone. They found others in plenty, however, until Pjtor firmly reminded everyone in court that he was the emperor, he needed heirs for the good of NovRodi, that he’d not married a foreigner, that Alsice’s family was not too closely related to his, and that the court could not agree on a bride for him, so he had selected his own. She had no living relatives, something that had placated many in court. No one would suddenly rise from being common to being the emperor’s in-law. And even Nilgal and Tarnoii agreed, along with Tabor—which was a wonder in itself—that no compromise candidate of age existed among the families of court. The only possible option was far too young, and as Nilgal had allowed, “Her sisters have not been blessed with children, raising some concerns, although Godown is gracious and merciful and gives in His time and season.” The poor girl in question looked like a stick as it was, and Pjtor really wondered if she fasted too much.

  Alsice, standing beside her husband-to-be, was not a stick.

  Archpriest Boris raised the embroidered band of colored cloth. “. . . Pjtor, son of Adam, son of Martin, son of Mikael, son of Alexander, take the hand of Alsice,” Fr. Boris sang. He did as ordered, noting that Alsice’s hand felt warm and dry. No nerves on her part. Good. “Pjtor, in Godown’s name, do you take this woman as your betrothed, to keep in your homefold, to honor with your body, and to take as wife, as Godown blesses the union?”

  “I, Pjtor, take this woman as my betrothed and wife, to keep in my home and to honor with my body.”

  Archpriest Boris raised one thin brown eyebrow but continued. “Alsice, do you take Pjtor to be your betrothed, to live in obedience under his care and to honor with your body, and to take as husband as Godown has blessed this union?”

  Pjtor could see her smiling behind the fine vail as she said in a clear voice that carried to the far end of the sanctuary, “I, Alsice, take this man to be my betrothed, to obey, to honor with my body, and to take as my husband.”

  Archpriest Boris nodded with approval, although if it was for her declaration or for Pjtor’s finally marrying her he couldn’t tell. A junior priest returned the crimson and green betrothal band, and Boris lifted the long strip of embroidered cloth for all to see. Then he laid it over the couple’s joined hands, whispered a prayer, and wrapped the long strip of fabric around the hands, tying it in an elaborate bow. “Those whom Godown has joined, may Godown bless and all men honor. Blessed be Godown,” he sang.

  “Blessed be Godown, lord of hearth and home,” the witnesses and all present sang back. The candle flames flickered, and the gold and silver of the mercy gate shone brighter as the shadows danced.

  “You may kiss your wife,” Fr. Boris told Pjtor. Pjtor lifted the veil, assisted by Alsice, and they kissed lightly. The celebrant untied their hands and handed the cloth to his assistant, who would add it to others kept in a special niche in the chapel, under the watchful eyes of St. Landis. The usual wedding feast had been delayed, given the seriousness of the fighting to the south and the concerns about harvest this year. And because no one in court truly approved of the marriage. But like the beards, none dared complain. Rumor whispered that young Karlinov had never returned to himself after Pjtor boxed his ear. Pjtor thought it a great improvement as he seemed to have knocked sense into the fool.

  That night Strella handed Pjtor a set of keys, some of them so ancient that no one knew what sort of lock they might once have fitted. “The Homefold is yours, Alsice, care well for it guardian of my treasures,” he told her, handing her the keys.

  Alsice took them, bowed, and then bowed to Strella. “My sister-by-marriage, I ask that you keep these in your care until I know better how to keep the treasures safe.”

  “Godown grant that it be soon,” Strella replied, accepting the ring back.

  As soon as she left and Boris, Pjtor’s valet, had finished collecting Pjtor’s clothes to be cleaned and pressed, Alsice almost jumped him. “Now, O husband, I get you to myself.”

  Apparently she’d finally recovered from their daughter’s birth, Pjtor thought briefly. Then he stopped thinking as her lips met his and their hands entwined. It wa
s very nice, having a wife who enjoyed marital congress. Very nice indeed.

  Three months later, at the edge of autumn by the sun, Pjtor sat on his big black horse and stared across the army at a city that made Muskava look like a child’s toy. “Dear Godown, I want that.”

  “You shall have it, your majesty,” Green said. “Assuming the bastards have not planted any surprises like the old books describe.” A flurry of saints’ signs and blessing gestures followed the words. “Although I wonder what is going on that they retreat so easily and fast.”

  “Godown is punishing them,” Father Martin, the chaplain stated. He rode a donkey with a mind of its own, and Pjtor thought the pair were a good match. “He tolerated their heresy until we saw the truth and repented of our sins, allowing Him to grant us victory.”

  I think it has more to do with cannon, ships, the loss of the pastures, and the Turklavi collapsing, but Godown has a hand in all those, thanks be to Godown. “As you say, Father.” Pjtor studied the city, marveling at the broad streets and low white buildings. A wall and a natural ridge formed a perfect circle around it, and on the other side from the ridge, a broad river sparkled in the early light. A few puffs of white marked where the big cannon had begun to batter the city wall. How had the Harriers managed to hold such a place, since they were barbaric horse nomads? Or had the Turklavi been here, sending the Harriers out, and only recently leaving? That possibility seemed more likely, and raised questions Pjtor preferred not to ask or to try to answer.

  The round city interested him more. He’d never really seen evidence of the Landers on such a large scale. Muskava had Lander elements but they’d been buried deep under part of the outer wall on the river side and under the palace. The monastery of St. Landis dated to just after the Great Fires, built as a place of refuge, but what bits were how old no one quite recalled. And it was one building with walls, not an entire city. Was this what Vindobona, the center of the Eastern Empire, looked like? No, because he’d seen a copy of a picture when he was in New Dalfa that showed Vindobona with a big church in the center as was proper. Nothing like that appeared before him, aside from a yellow smear that might be some buildings or an odd-looking open market area. And why round? It looked as if the city had been fitted into a shallow hole in the ground with walls built on top of natural stone. Thrifty if that’s what it is, but why dig a large shallow pit for a city? Strange are the Landers and mighty the works of Godown, blessed be Godown.

  Pjtor took his leave and rode down the back of the ridge, away from the main part of the fighting. He’d get there soon enough, Godown willing. As it was, he had much to do, since the relay riders and mirror signals had at last caught up to him. He’d left Geert Fielders and Captain Anderson in charge of matters related to the foreign workers and traders, and a stack of letters and what appeared to be plans of some kind waited in his tent. To Strella, Archbishop Adam, and Lord Borislov he’d given the empire, and copious instructions on how they were to manage the council. Thanks be that Strella and Alsice got along well.

  Thanks be, also, that the river was too large for the Harriers to successfully foul. As it was they’d had to bring a lot more wood than Pjtor imagined, and even some earth coal. Truly Godown had been with them, because they’d found a seam of the slick, hard black fuel only a week’s steady travel by wagon to the west. It was well worth the trouble and effort to dig out of the dry stream bank where the scout found it, because a little burned for so long and so hot. The smiths were singing the praises of Godown every time they plunged a weapon into the fire to repair. Surely Godown had given them two prosperous years in order to prepare NovRodi for this effort.

  Still, Pjtor thought as he nodded to the guards on watch, pride went before disaster. Sara had been proof of that, Grigory even more so. The men and women of NovRodi were not that much better than those elsewhere. He snorted and waved away a fly. Godown did as He pleased for His own reasons. Pjtor’s job was to not squander those opportunities granted and to keep the people on the proper path. Speaking of which, he kneed the horse onto the right-handed way. Left-handed took him out of the main camp to the waste dumping ground, where what could be burned or buried, was. An army made a lot or ordure, no matter how careful the men were. No one had yet found a way to train horses, oxen, and mules not to go where they chose. Was that why the Landers had devised machines that rolled without needing animal power? Because they got tired of cleaning up manure? How had they fed and cleaned up after animals as they crossed the stars, anyway?

  An enterprising soul had dug a well that provided clean water—more or less—not far from where Pjtor had ordered his personal tent pitched. The water needed to be boiled, of course, to remove any miasma that might cling despite the cleansing soil around the well, but it was better than river water. Pjtor knew what floated down the river.

  Once off his horse and after a glass of tea, Pjtor looked at the first plans for a new city on the Sweetwater Sea. They’d only mapped half of it, but what they’d found so far was amazing. Landis had pointed out spice trees, with the bark that produced warming flavors such as were used in winter porridges. They’d also found some more ruins, Lander or perhaps later, overgrown by the forest that began on the southern side of the great body of water. The northern side had earth coal, plentiful water and not too many marshes, stone for building and several herds of what Landis called “beesolow.” “They are like wild cattle, imperial master, but do well in heat. Their hides have little hair. Do not anger them, imperial master. They will come back to get revenge. The great kings hunted them on foot for sport, like the jungle cats and pseudo-boar.”

  Landis had more than earned his freedom and Pjtor’s respect over the past months. He’d gone south early, traveling with the first of the scouts. Originally from even farther to the south, beyond the great hills the lurked in a faint blue line well south of the Sweetwater Sea, he had not tried to return home after the men of NovRodi found him, for reasons he kept to himself. He hated the Harriers and desired revenge for his slavery and for what had been done to his face. Alone among men Landis always wore a veil or scarf, concealing hideous scars and the hole where most of his nose had been before the Harriers splashed him with burning oil for having dared to protect other slaves. Pjtor’s men had freed him, Alsice, and other Harrier captives when they’d captured the fort on Fort Lake, upstream of the Sweetwater Sea. Several men reported that he’d taken to sneaking out at night, returning with black braids taken from dead Harriers. Pjtor had been at a loss what to do about that until Lord Jan Alicorn had taken him into his personal troops, directing Landis’s fury where it did the most good. The two shared a similar philosophy concerning the Harriers, and Pjtor listened to the latest report about their doings, rubbed his forehead, and wondered what he would do after they defeated the Harriers. Would the men’s anger be spent by then? Godown alone knew.

  Pjtor returned to the rough sketch of the new city. It would sit on a bluff away from the lakeshore proper, with a protected road leading to the docks. Father Martin said one of the ancient cities on the Lander homeworld had something like that and it had served them well for hundreds of years. That it would keep the city away from the water, and any trouble away from the ships in the lake, went without saying. As with all modern cities, the streets inside twisted and jumped, preventing a direct attack through from one side to the other. Is that really needed now, if Godown grants us the victory? Would it not be easier to have a neat, rectangular pattern like that part of New Dalfa, especially if the Harriers are no more? As he considered it, it seemed as if Pjtor saw the waters of the lake beyond the city, shimmering and lovely like a rainbow.

  Oh no. He went to his cot. An orderly removed his boots and Pjtor lay down, eyes closed as curtains of colored light danced across his eyelids. The familiar sense of peace and deep joy, a joy he had no words to truly describe, filled him with the faint hint of what Godown’s full blessing must be like. Then his body seemed to fall away from him. He came back to a ferocious headache an
d angry mood. The soldiers had better do well, or he’d chase them back to Muskava himself, beating them with the five-tailed whip every step of the journey.

  Thanks be he’d not had a spell on the way down, he managed to think through the pounding. “Salibark,” he croaked. After the foreigners had helped his people rediscover the power of that wonderful, nasty-tasting brew that eased pain and tasted far too foul to abuse, unlike poppy extract, he’d begun carrying some in all of his supplies. Geert, Anderson, and a few others had warned him to never, ever mix salibark, something called mudmallow, and alcohol. Right now he didn’t especially care if the brew killed him, so long as his head quit aching and he got his legs back. A cup of the bitter, tongue-coating tea appeared and a quiet voice said, “It was steeped for two repetitions of the Shepherd’s Prayer and one iteration of St. Basil’s Blessing, imperial master.”

  “Good.” He sat up enough to drink it, gulping the too-hot concoction. It burned his mouth enough that he didn’t taste it. He handed back the cup, waited for a count of one hundred to make certain all of it reached his stomach, then lay back down, one arm over his eyes. How had Blessed Toni managed to lead her Sisters and run the convent with these blasted spells coming daily, as the records claimed? Only through Godown’s gift, and as he recalled, Blessed Toni had the headache first, then visions and the sense of peace. That must have been the secret, Pjtor decided. The pounding dwindled to a dull throbbing. One book from New Dalfa claimed that eating a bit of bread baked from moldy “rhy” also helped, but of course did not explain what “rhy” was or what sort of mold. Typical, Pjtor growled as he started dozing off. They gave the answer but not the important details.

  Another Holy Day passed before Pjtor heard a sound that made everyone with him stop, turn, and stare. He’d ridden around the camp, stopping by one of the areas reserved for the wounded, visiting some of the men and a few minor nobles who had been injured. As he left the tent, he felt something shake his bones and his ears ached. A deep, thundering boooom rolled across the world from the direction of the Lander city. A plume of smoke rose up, and up, and up, and Pjtor stared, slack-jawed. “Holy Godown, what is that?”