Golden Summer (Colplatschki Chronicles Book 10)

by Alma Boykin

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  EPUB edition ISBN: 978-1-77342-019-6

  Kindle edition ISBN: 978-1-77342-020-2

  Paperback edition ISBN: 978-1-77342-021-9

  Copyright 2017 Alma T.C. Boykin, all rights reserved.

  Cover

  Title Page

  1: Changes and Constants

  2: Spring Shifts

  3: Defeat and Changes

  4: Defeat and Defiance

  5: Heirs and Victories

  6: Family Matters

  7: Taking on Faith

  8: Episcopal Exasperation

  9: A City on a River

  10: Of Sons and Ships

  11: Shelter from Storms

  12: Frankonian Fury

  13: Father and Son

  14: Emperor, Father, Husband

  About The Author

  The Colplatschki Chronicles

  The Cat Among Dragons Series

  “Enough!” Pjtor Adamson Martinson Svendborg roared. Oops. He’d intended to say, not roar, but the din from the council overwhelmed his intentions to stay calm and quiet. The wooden walls of the chamber seemed to bulge outward and Pjtor heard nothing more but whispers of rustling clothes and a few gulps from the nobles.

  “Most imperial majesty, forgive us,” one of the older men whispered. The nobles had all dropped to one or both knees, terrified of what might happen next. They’d seen Pjtor angry, had seen the bodies lining the road from Muskava. The Emperor of NovRodi, prince of Muskava, lord of the Sweetwater Sea, anointed by Godown to lead His faithful, was not a man to anger. Pjtor towered over most men of NovRodi, over two meters tall, broad shouldered, with dark hair and lighter brown mustache. Pjtor stood carefully, lest he break the ancient wooden throne of his father and great grandfather.

  Far more quietly he repeated his earlier words. “As I said, the new southern holdings are crown land, to be distributed as the crown sees fit. Ten percent will be set aside as tithe land, the rents and income going to support the Holy Church as is right.” He stepped down from the low dais and walked between the still kneeling men. There you are, Tarnoii. Enough is enough. “The church’s share will not be directed to fighting the True Spirits, as they call themselves, nor will the land be given to those most aggressive about rooting the heretics from their lands. Or their neighbors’ lands.” Pjtor leaned over and hissed, “Am I clear, Tarnoii?”

  The older man glared up at Pjtor but said only, “You are most clear, Imperial master.”

  Pjtor glanced to the back of the council room. Lords Arkmandii and Tabor showed no signs of relief or happiness. Good for you, Pjtor thought. Someday I will have to take steps against the heretics you shelter, but not today. He walked back to his throne, smoothed the hem of his short coat and sat. “You may rise.”

  The disposal of the new southern lands had been worrying the court ever since Pjtor had returned from the battles three months ago. Now, with the feast of St. Boris and the deepest part of winter coming, the lords’ thoughts turned to spring and to claiming the vast grasslands to the south of Muskava for themselves. Pjtor had other ideas. They had not fought the Harriers at his side, except for Tabor, Arkmandii, and Alicorn. Tabor and Arkmandii had already assured Pjtor that they did not want any new land for the moment, because they had just finished ripping their current lands free of the Harriers, the unbelieving horse raiders who had plagued NovRodi since before Pjtor’s great grandfather’s time. They knew exactly what the Harriers could do and preferred to wait for the border to shift a little farther before moving their people into the great grass sea, the unplowed wheat land along the Dawn River.

  The nobles stood, and stayed quiet, for which Pjtor thanked Godown. Their old-style long robes, long beards, and grey faces irritated him. “Is anyone suffering true dearth yet?”

  Lord Nilgal the Younger, nephew of the despised idiot, raised his hand. “My most northern holdings are short of grain and whiteroot, although meat they have in plenty, imperial master.”

  “The frost?”

  “Yes, Imperial Master, and a hail storm. We received no frost warning, and I doubt it would have helped if we did: grain is harder to shelter than are fruit trees. As it stands, the mirror-talkers do not reach so far into the forests.”

  True, and Pjtor doubted they ever would, given the size of the trees in Nilgal’s most northerly territories. The shipbuilders could make an entire mast from one of those enormous trunks, with enough wood left over to build a small house, or so it seemed. He dragged his thoughts back to business. “Speak with Master Boris about supplies from the imperial granary. It is for just such needs. And it will provide food faster than will unplowed lands,” he reminded several people who looked as if they wanted to protest. They subsided, although the ancient Archpriest Tan glared at Pjtor from his stool, a concession to the old man’s age. No, Father, succoring those in need is not a violation of Godown’s will. I asked Godown if He was punishing us with the frost and He spoke not. I will take that to mean no.

  Lord Tabor whispered something to Arkmandii, who looked thoughtful. He raised one hand and Pjtor acknowledged him. “Imperial master, pardon the impertinence, but what say you to the rumors about her imperial majesty’s condition?”

  Pjtor had been dreading that question. He swallowed hard. Tamsin was a devout daughter of Godown and had tried hard to give him a second son, and had failed. After ten years of marriage and only one living offspring the time had come to separate. “It appears that Godown has closed her womb for reasons known only to Him. Our prayers and pleas have not been answered, and for the good of the lands of NovRodi, she has been released from marriage to retire to a convent as an honored sister, with support for as long as Godown grants her to live.”

  She had not been happy with his decision. His sister Strella had not been happy. Pjtor had not been happy either even though he’d never loved Tamsin and was not sure if she had any feelings for him. They shared a bed but nothing more—he remaining outside in the world and she remaining within the sheltered women’s quarters of the Homefold despite his orders that all women of rank could participate in court feasts and other events. Tamsin had born one son, then lost three pregnancies, had given him a daughter who died before taking breath, and lost another pregnancy late enough that the midwife had reported that the child would have been a girl. Pjtor could not wait any longer.

  “Please, imperial master, husband, do not set me aside,” she’d pled when he told her. She remained attractive, although not as pretty when he’d married her.

  “My lady, Godown has not blessed us with a second son. For the good of the empire I must have at least one more son, lest war tear the land apart after I die.” Or before, as the lords cut each other apart trying to be named heir, or corrupt my son getting into his favor. No.

  His sister Strella, standing behind Tamsin, had opened her mouth as if to speak then had closed it again, frowning. He suspected she’d give him a scolding later, as much as she scolded. She’d studied their stepmother and half-sister Sara and did her best to do the opposite of those two harridans. Tamsin, on her knees, had crawled forward, touching his boot-toes with her forehead.

  “Please, imperial master, please do not set me aside, please.” She had begun weeping, then sobbing, her tears dropping onto the embroidered felt of his crimson house boots. “Forgive me, please, give me another chance to please you, I beg, in Godown’s name.”

  I do not have the luxury, woman. “The needs of NovRodi come before all, and I betray Godown’s trust if I do not do everything in my power to bring peace and stability to the land.”

/>   Strella had nodded, tight lipped, still unhappy. Well, she was a woman, after all.

  Pjtor had continued, “A place has been prepared for you at the convent of St. Klara of the Waters.” Tamsin had not spoken, instead sniffing and covering her face with her hands. At least he had not decided to send her to St. Molly’s, but to inflict Sara on her would be too cruel. She had only failed him, not truly displeased him. And St. Klara’s was remote enough that no one would bother her, or come seeking revenge for what her father and brother had done. Pjtor suspected that their sin had turned Godown against Tamsin, but he never said that thought aloud.

  He’d left the Homefold after telling Tamsin the news. He preferred his own quarters, located between the Homefold and the public section of the palace. Pjtor walked quickly, no longer having to duck at every doorway now that he and skilled carpenters had raised the tops of the doors outside the Homefold. Servants opened the doors for him, bowing low as he passed. Word traveled faster than even thought, or so it seemed, and he found hot tea and roast pfiggy sausages waiting, the small ones the size of two joints on his smallest finger, along with hot yellow sauce and tart pflum sauce on heavy, dark winter bread. He devoured the light repast, drank the tea and finished it with a thumb-sized glass of spirits of blue apple. Thumb-sized on a normal man, but even so it warmed Pjtor from stomach to hairline. Boris, his aging valet, had seen that the dishes disappeared as soon as Pjtor emptied them. Pjtor had rinsed his hands with warm water and then turned his attention to other matters.

  Now, seated on his throne, he wondered what to do about the lords of the council and his need for a fertile wife. As soon as he finished announcing her retirement, several of the bearded men’s eyes narrowed with speculation. Only four of those had daughters of the proper age and still unwed. A few more had female relatives that might be suitable, and Pjtor suddenly dreaded the prospect of the bride show. His mother had selected Tamsin for her connections as well as pliability and appearance. Now that he was of age and ruling in his own right, tradition demanded that Pjtor call for a bride show, a parade of women of proper birth and breeding, from which he would pick one to marry. None of the young women he’d seen were homely, but he did not care for their families as in-laws. I know all too well how that ends. I wonder what would happen if I sent a call to the foreigners’ quarter looking for a wife? Other than civil war, hair pulling, and shrieks from the homefolds that would make even Godown put His hands over His ears? Assuming He has ears. Not smart, although it might be entertaining for him.

  “It is a sensitive and serious matter, and the search for a wife is not one to rush.” Not that it would stop the men from shoving girls at him. Maybe ordering the homefolds opened had not been such a good idea.

  To Pjtor’s surprise, Lord Tarnoii, nodded and looked relieved. “Indeed, most wise imperial master, it is best to allow a decent period of time for such decisions. Does not Wisdom three, verse eight say, ‘All things in their season, neither rushed nor delayed, for Godown makes all in its proper time. Therefore, my son, do not fret. Can you force the spring into blooming, or stop summer’s heat? No, be patient, wait upon Godown and He will reward you.’ Thanks be to Godown.”

  “Thanks be to Godown,” all replied and Pjtor bowed his head. “Ameen.”

  After that, no one could argue. Which was just as well, because they had been together for the better part of at least two hours, although it felt longer to Pjtor. He hated sitting still. “Archpriest Tan, if you would dismiss us into Godown’s blessing?”

  The ancient priest raised one hand and all bowed, even Pjtor. “Go with Godown’s grace and peace, and may Godown’s wisdom guide you to serve well those entrusted to you. May Godown bless and guard you until you come into His final peace.”

  “Ameen.”

  By custom Pjtor waited until the last man had bowed, backed to the door, bowed again, and left. Then he stood, always careful not to break the arms of the throne, and fled the council chamber. The stench of unwashed men would only grow worse as the cold days continued. Several of the lords preferred not to use the steam house until after meetings, and Pjtor wanted to hold them in the river until the dirt and Godown-only-knows-what in their hair and beards and clothes washed away. But that would ruin the water. Pjtor stopped by one of the necessary closets and emerged far less rushed than he had been. A service-slave would remove the contents and give them to the man who collected such liquid for the gunpowder makers.

  Roasted apples, hot beef broth, and hot black bread with butter and pfeach preserves waited for Pjtor. So did a small pot of the fantastically expensive chokofee he’d grown to love while he was across the White Sea in New Dalfa. Boris took his robes of office and sniffed as usual when he handed Pjtor the shorter eastern-style coat he favored. Boris felt that the shorter length reduced the dignity of the garment’s wearer. As Pjtor ate, a servant tapped three times on the door. A maid opened it, bowed and Pjtor called, “Come in and be seated.”

  A second chair appeared and Master Geert Fielders bowed, then sat. He’d already shed his heavy coat and hat, and cupped a mug of tea happily, sighing. “Thank you, my lord. That wind is as cold as the heart of a Hämäl whore.”

  “What news?”

  “The offers of trading bonuses have interested several partnerships, although the councils,” Geert shrugged. “No two cities can agree on anything unless the Frankonians are at our throats. I suspect more ship builders will come next year, since the masters have graduated a good number but ship orders are steady.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and lowered his voice. “And there are rumors that the king of Frankonia remains angry with you, Pjtor Adamson. Very angry indeed.”

  “I am not exactly fond of him myself.” Pjtor savored the chokofee and frowned at the memory. Two years ago some Frankonian agents had claimed to be representatives of NovRodi, claiming a ship that did not belong to them. Pjtor had happened to be at that particular dock working on a different vessel as the journeyman Peter McAdams of Hämäl and had called their bluff. Others had beaten up the men, and more workers had caught Frankonian soldiers trying to sneak under the pier and take over the ship in question. The council of New Dalfa had fined Frankonia blood-money for the man the agents assaulted, and had closed the port to Frankonian ships for the next two months, emergencies excepted. Laurence V, or so Pjtor had heard, had protested, fumed, hurled insults and acted like the aging spoiled brat many people took him to be. “But he is on the other side of the sea. The Harriers are on this side, and worry me more.”

  “Agreed, my lord.” Geert sat back and ran his hand over his blond beard, a little darker than his white-pale hair. “And my lady wife says if you wish to marry our daughter, you need to wait a while. I warn you, she will want a very nice in-law gift.” Geert winked.

  Pjtor laughed for the first time in several days. “Geert, if your daughter turns out to be anything like your wife or your sons, I would find more peace among the Harriers.”

  “My lord, Anna has only escaped the nursery once.”

  “Thus far. She is only a year old.”

  Geert raised his tea mug, smiling and acknowledging the warning.

  The next day, as soon as the clouds thinned enough to let weak winter sunlight into the library, Pjtor went to look at maps. By now the servants knew he did not care to be bothered, and they left him alone. Pjtor disliked reading. He struggled to remember what he’d read, but he could recall pictures well. One of the groups that had travelled south with the armies the past summer had been map makers, who had corrected and updated several depictions of the grass plains. Now Pjtor unfolded one of the new maps and studied it, looking at how far he had yet to go.

  Light brown lines marked the current borders of the land both claimed and held by NovRodi. Heavy black showed where the borders had been at the time of the Great Fires, before Godown had punished the Landers for their pride by destroying the great machines, and before the Harriers and their Turklavi masters had driven his people out of the grass plains and
into the woods and swamps of the north. He had so far yet to go! Two months’ travel south with the army lay the Sweetwater Sea, the great freshwater lake formed by the Dawn River and other smaller streams. Around it north, east, and west stretched rich grasslands that eventually faded into the forests in the north and northwest. Pjtor looked at the small slice of grassland that his armies now held, a dagger into the heart of the Harriers’ claimed land. They’d taken it but could the men of NovRodi hold it? Pjtor did not dare to believe a “yes” answer, not after what his sister’s lover had failed so spectacularly to accomplish.

  They had the river and the lake. To the west of the lake, another river flowed in like a spoke of a wheel, and upstream of that a city, a Lander city, now the central city of the Harriers. No, it is their only city, at least that’s what my father’s agents said. We capture that, clean it out, and we end their power for good. Maybe. The horse warriors fought hard and seemed to strike, then sink into the very earth of the great grass plain. But no longer. No, now he would pay them back. If they stopped raiding, his people could spread back into the rich grain lands, and more people meant a stronger land and a harder task for the Harriers or their distant lords.

  And if the Turklavi of the western terror were the same as the Turkowi the Easterners had so badly beaten, well, Pjtor smiled and straightened up, ducking without thinking lest he hit his head on a low ceiling beam. He’d seen the woman warrior, chosen of Godown, who had managed much of that. Without that outside support, the Harriers could not regain the ground they lost, or so Pjtor hoped. “Which means they will fight even harder. Beware the cornered enemy,” Pjtor whispered under his breath. General Green, Captain Anderson, and the man known only as Landis had warned Pjtor of that often enough. Well, he suspected what Strella had done when cornered, and never again did he want to see her with a bloody dagger in one hand and a blood-and-hair smeared turnspit in the other. If she could fight like that, what would the Harriers be like?