by Alma Boykin
“Godown is preparing for more priests and He will call them in His good time. Thus, the provision of land for the church in order to support the priests, and allowing the settlement of those lands so that the newly-ordained will not be forced to labor in the physical as well as spiritual wilderness,” Archbishop Adam repeated. “He has given the lands to the church through His intercession and grace alone, not through any effort of mortals.”
Creak. Pjtor heard the sound of wood starting to break even over the sound of gasps and the rustle of fabric as people made Godown’s sign and saints’ signs. Pjtor released the chair arm before he broke it and made St. Issa’s sign, warding off lightning and Godown’s wrath.
Father Mike, the priest who had gone south the previous year as an army chaplain, stood. “Your reverence, what shall I tell the widows and orphans of those killed fighting the Harriers, should they return again?”
Adam missed the point. “That Godown takes the souls of the faithful to His rest and that He will provide justice as He always has.” He leader of the church frowned, thin eyebrows disappearing in the wrinkles of his forehead, or so it looked from where Pjtor sat. “As we tell all who die in Godown’s grace.”
Pjtor could not see the chaplain’s face but doubted that the man was happy about the answer. “Thank you, your reverence.” He sat.
“As I was saying before the distractions arose,” Adam said. “The new lands belong to the church and the crown will take steps to confirm and grant the titles to the appropriate houses and orders for new foundations, as well as protecting the service-slaves sent to open the soil once more and to make it bloom for the harvest. Those priests who wish to serve in the new lands may do so, but no one will be ordered to relocate.”
Pjtor braced for another outburst. Instead absolute silence descended on the gathering, a silence that raised the hair on the back of Pjtor’s neck and that felt horribly like the moment before a storm unleashed its wrath on the land. Dear, holy Godown, merciful beyond the understanding of man, forgive Your children when we stray. Great Shepherd, have mercy on your wayward flock, for we scatter like shahma and stray from Your pastures, he recited as fast as he could. Have mercy upon us, have mercy of most Merciful Godown, all wise and all powerful. Preserve us your shahma from the wicked herdsman and from our own errors, guide and shelter us we pray, pardon us for our pride and error holy Godown, maker of all and judge of all, have mercy please pleasepleaseplease. Even those who usually supported Archbishop Adam leaned away from his seat and several of those seated on the back rows began whispering bead prayers, the soft click of bead against bead the only sound in the enormous room.
“Your reverence, is such truly the will of Godown?” The still, small voice seemed to fill the room in a way Pjtor had never felt before.
Adam blinked. “It is what I believe Godown’s will to be, and He has set me as the head of the church in NovRodi. He has given NovRodi gifts of land and of truth. The church is the guardian of both and I am the one whom Godown has entrusted the church to.” The words made Pjtor want to fall on his face in terror and fear of Godown’s wrath. He knew Adam had enjoyed his position more than Archbishop Nikolas had, but even Nikolas never dared say such things as Adam spoke.
On the second try Pjtor managed to speak. “Archbishop, bishops, archpriests, members of the clergy, I believe Godown has made His truth known. May Godown have mercy on us all, and especially on those who stray for lack of shepherds and shahma herds. I go to pray for discernment and guidance.” Pjtor stood and fled the market hall. He went straight to the church of St. Molly within the palace walls, bowed, lit the altar candles, knelt on the hard floor and began reciting the bead prayers that he’d neglected for far too long, interspersed with prayers for the church and the council.
He stayed there until the candles burned down. Only then, unable to feel his knees, did he get to his feet, staggering and light-headed. As he left, he found a messenger from the council waiting. “Imperial Majesty, the council has adjourned for prayer and contemplation as it seeks Godown’s guidance. It will resume tomorrow two hours by sun following dawn prayers.”
“Thank you,” Pjtor croaked, throat dry. “You are dismissed.”
The novice bowed and departed. Servants met Pjtor at the door to the palace living quarters with hot broth, bread and butter under ham, and then a hearty vegetable and sausage soup with warming herbs. And more tea. Alsice helped him sit, served him, and then sent the servants away. She waited until he finished eating and cleaning the last bit of broth out of the bowl with the bread, then asked, “The church is not in entire concord and unity?”
“No. May Godown have mercy.” Pjtor stopped there.
She nodded. “Strella and I feared as much after yesterday, my lord. The household has been taking turns praying for the council and fasting.”
He leaned over and kissed her forehead just under the band of her head cover. “Thank you, and Strella. Prayers for the guidance of the church are never wasted.”
To his surprise she snorted and rolled her eyes. “Margit Fielder told me about the followers of St. Mou and the silliness they caused in the Eastern Empire twenty years or so ago. Godown truly must love us to put up with our behavior some days.”
“That may be the single greatest evidence of His love indeed. What is that saying about Godown and shahma?”
She pursed her lips. “You mean the one about ‘Thanks be that Godown doesn’t answer all our prayers, or we’d have no horses, sheep, or shahma,’ my lord?”
“That’s it.” He’d recovered from his fear and wondered how he could broach his proposal to the church council. Archbishop Adam needed to go into retirement, at least until he saw that his will and Godown’s were not identical all the time. Pjtor’s destruction of portions of three books paled in comparison with the chief shahma herd’s willful refusal to care to the needs of his charges, two footed or four. Pjtor still had trouble reconciling Adam’s earlier service to the church with his three-fold refusal to heed the warnings and concerns of the clergy and Pjtor. He didn’t sleep well that night.
With some trepidation Pjtor rode to the market hall now meeting hall. He joined the procession of clergy and observed gaps in the line. I wonder if they are taking turns praying for the council? That makes sense. Unless they stalked off after whatever happened yesterday. I certainly would have if I’d been one of the rural parish priests. Which may be why Godown did not make me a parish priest, since obedience is not one of my strengths. Pjtor took his seat and almost fell out of it when he saw Bishop Robert settling into the chair at the other end of the rows of benches and tables. Blessed St. Issa what happened? Surely Godown did not strike Archbishop Adam for his error? Pjtor could not recall reading of that happening for the past two centuries, and he would have, since his great-grand-uncle had been the sort of person everyone else thought Godown would smite, maybe not with lightning or a holy dardog but something equally obvious and firm.
Father Mike stood after the opening invocation, picked up a sheet of paper and held it at arm’s length, squinting a little as he did. “The notes of yesterday’s session as recorded by Brother Anselm and seconded by Father Tim and Mother Klara.” He glanced at the tall abbess, who nodded. “Archbishop Adam of Muskava presented the council with plans for land claims and distribution based on the previous two years of military expansion to the south against the Harriers. He also addressed questions concerning the scarcity of clergy and the ratio of priests to cloistered monks. In the course of the discussion questions concerning his discernment of Godown’s will arose, leading to further discussion, prayer, and debate. Following his imperial majesty’s departure . . .” He stopped reading and turned toward Pjtor. “To seek intercession?”
“That is correct. Prayers for wisdom and discernment were offered by the imperial household as well as fasting.”
“Thank you, imperial majesty.” Father Mike bent over, accepted a freshly dipped pen and filled something in, then straightened up and resumed read
ing. “Following his imperial majesty’s departure to seek intercession and wisdom for the council, Godown moved the council to encourage Adam to seek further discernment and openness to proper understanding of Godown’s will. When brother Adam assured the council in heated tones that he fully knew Godown’s will and challenged the rest of Godown’s anointed, the council voted to remove Adam until such time as he accepts in all humility that his understanding may have been in error. He and several other brothers in Godown departed the council chamber. After further prayer and three rounds of voting, Bishop Robert of Marshton accepted Godown’s will to act as leader of the church in NovRodi until such time as Godown sends a leader better fitted to the task.
“The council also decided, after discussion and thoughtful contemplation, that the church will leave those lands taken from the Harriers with the crown to manage, and will encourage those with monastic vocations to delay their novitiate until they have served Godown in the world for two years and remain certain of their calling.” He lowered the page and said in a relieved voice, “Thanks be to Godown.”
“Ameen,” the group replied so firmly Pjtor thought the roof might shake.
Pjtor stood, then bowed to the group. “Thanks and praise to Godown for restoring concord and unity to His church that together we may better guide and protect His people, body and soul. As a sign of my thanks and joy, in addition to Godown’s Tenth, I offer an additional Tenth of all crown revenue for the good of the church, to be used to meet the needs of all believers. And will have three liturgies of thanks and rejoicing offered at Godown of the Endless Stars and St. Landis-on-the-Beast-Market.”
“Ameen.”
After that, the discussion of Pjtor’s proposal to return property lines to where they should be seemed mild and harmonious, and a compromise reached without hard feeling or prejudice.
Archbishop Adam sent a letter announcing that he would be at St. Tamar-on-Dawn, waiting for their request for his return and the council’s apologies and plea for pardon. Pjtor struggled to hide his smile and to keep from thinking thoughts stronger than I hope he is more patient than most men. Very privately, Pjtor thought dardogs would begin eating grass, horses would fly, and the grasslands sprout bushes bearing chokofee beans overnight before the council begged Adam to return.
After the council concluded four days later, Pjtor lay in bed, fingers laced together under his head, and smiled. Now I can start worrying about my new cities. Thanks be to Godown!
After eight years of construction, Pjtor sniffed, you’d think I’d have a bigger city. Alsice kept gently reminding him that the impossible required a little more time than did the merely extremely difficult. The mouth of the Colrodo River was the perfect place for Pjtor’s port city, other than being cold, marshy, prone to floods from both river and sea, and overrun with blood-biters in spring and again in mid-summer. He’d had to pay extra for free labor, at least at first, until enough flat, dry places were finished for workers to live above the mud. He tapped the roll of plans against his leg, frowning a little at the difference between his desires and what existed so far.
Ten years had passed since the Great Council of the Church and the destruction of most of the True Spirits. NovRodi had prospered despite two killing winters and drought that led to a fire that devoured a third of Muskava, including part of the palace’s defensive wall and several outbuildings. Even so, more souls served Godown in all parts of NovRodi, from the Sweetwater Sea to here, in the far north east of NovRodi, far from Muskava and the old men who kept their estates within the walls and who lived like spirits who refused to understand that their time had passed. Young Pjtor claimed to prefer Muskava to New Rodi, but his father suspected that had more to do with the differences between them than his son’s actual tastes. If father liked something, son hated it. Alsice and Strella, and Adam and Klara and Toni and Olga and even little Issa had all tried to mediate between the two, with varying amounts of success.
Pjtor heard hoofbeats and turned as Alsice rode up the gentle slope on the landward side of the hill overlooking New Rodi. She still preferred to ride sitting sideways and her husband had given up trying to order her to do otherwise. As long as the horses remained sound, who was he to order the empress of NovRodi to do anything? Riding made her almost as tall as he was. Instead of the light near-ponies of a decade before, now she rode sturdy geldings and mares better suited to her rounder figure. Pjtor liked the roundness as much as he’d liked her in her more slender days, and after another son and three daughters, plus one child who lived with Godown and one mis-birth, her health outweighed fashion. As it was she scandalized the older women by wearing eastern riding suits and the new, square neckline and bodice that emphasized her womanly attributes very well indeed. She bowed in the saddle.
“So much remains to be done,” he told her.
“Pjtor, everyone but Godown says that. Surely founding two new cities and dozens of villages, having two new ports, and keeping the Harriers at bay for ten years is enough for a mere mortal.” She smiled as she spoke, teasing him in her gentle way.
Pjtor patted her hand, then stepped out of the dapple gelding’s path before he decided to try to nibble either his hat or the roll of plans. “Large men have large ideas and great duties.” He turned back to the scene. “Geert says the steeple-light works. He could see it ten kilometers from shore.”
“Thanks be to Godown!” The church of Saints Issa and Molly looked exceedingly odd compared to the usual low, rounded churches of NovRodi with their stocky bell towers. This spire rose almost seventy-five meters into the air, with a bright lantern at sixty meters made brighter by special stacked lenses imported from A’Asterdee. Pjtor did not pretend to understand how they worked, but work they did and he now had an additional beacon to guide traders and others safely to his port. The rest of the church appeared more traditional aside from the four colored glass windows imported from New Dalfa. Staadtfather Robert had expressed serious doubts about the innovation, but granted Pjtor an exception so long as the rest of the interior remained well within the bounds of tradition. That Pjtor had no difficulty agreeing to. Robert of Marshton had, after all, refused the title of archbishop in favor of a far older term, Staadtfather, which seemed to mean “leader of priests in towns and villages” in a dialect that pre-dated the Landing. Adam the former archbishop refused to surrender the title and staff of office, but Robert and the others felt this to be the most honorable and satisfying solution and one that most people found comforting.
Comforts were what New Rodi still lacked, although they now far surpassed what had once been here, Pjtor knew. “And the port facilities survived that last storm dry and secure, although a few awnings blew away.”
Alsice made a rude noise. “And how many times have the port masters told people to take wind and storm warnings seriously?”
“As many times as a shahma herd complains about his beasts, my love.”
“At least that many, Pjtor.” She scratched her horse’s crest with her riding stick. “The gardens also survived, you will be pleased to know.”
Not half as pleased as you are. The gardens, open to all who wished to walk through them without bothering the plants and trees, had been Alsice’s idea and pet project. Pjtor thought them a waste of space and had been surprised when people expressed their delight. She’d also pushed for the schools for workers’ children, something the parents appreciated far more than their offspring. Pjtor had thrown his hands into the air and let her try her foolishness, so long as it did not disrupt life. He’d decided that while having more people who could read and write was a good thing for NovRodi as a whole, most farmers and peasants did not need to be bothered with such things. “That’s good.”
“So is New Rodi.”
“Yes, it is.” Their hill rose fifteen meters above the flat plain where the mouth of the Colrodo River fanned out before reaching the sea. The White Sea shimmered in the distance, its grey-blue waters blurring into the grey-white northern sky. To the far left the
twigs and sticks of masts rose above ships anchored at the military dock, and the dark, low walls of the port-fort on its island lumped against the water and sky. Separated from them by the main channel of the Colrodo, more masts marked the commercial port. Somewhere in the thicket Swift One sat in her special shed, the pride of the navy of NovRodi. She’d come by wagon from Hornand to the head of navigation on the Colrodo, then Pjtor had sailed her down the NovRodi to her new home. Colorful buildings made of brick covered with tinted plaster, or cream-colored stone, marked where the city had grown from the port, built on a grid like the old Lander cities. In a few places, canals replaced streets to allow supplies and building materials to pass more easily, and to give rainwater a place to go and escape the streets. Master craftsmen from the Sea Republics and Free Cities of the Eastern Empire had taught the men of NovRodi how to sink logs into the mud to form a foundation for stone buildings as well as how to carve curves and other delicate shapes from the soft stones found upstream. Tile and thin plates of a dark blue-grey stone the Easterners called “slat” covered all the roofs, making fire less of a danger. The workers’ houses kept their thatch or wooden roofs, but they clustered outside the gates and away from Pjtor’s view.
The slanted late-afternoon autumn sun warmed the city, making the yellow into a deeper gold touched with cream and deep grey. And every bit of it belonged to Pjtor and Godown. He wanted more, faster, just as he always did. The passing years had not changed that, much to his wife and sister’s frustration. And why should he change? He was as Godown made him, emperor of a far more prosperous and peaceful NovRodi than what he and his half-brother had inherited from their father. And NovRodi no longer had to hide behind the waves of the White Sea or the dirt wall that blocked the Harriers from easy raids. Oh, they still harassed the far western settlements and rumor held that they’d turned their attentions even farther south, to the lands of the Spice Kings. Pjtor did not wish them on anyone, but did not regret their choice of targets, if indeed that was what had happened. He had sufficient to keep him busy, like Frankonia.
