by Alma Boykin
“Master Tom, my instructor, says that books are our most precious relic of the past and are to be guarded and treasured, not destroyed.” The boy did not contradict or challenge Pjtor exactly, but his father still frowned.
“The contents of some books are indeed valuable. The contents of others are less so, especially of books that hold nothing but lists of names and dates of common people.”
Young Pjtor hesitated, licked his thin lips and dared to say, “Those were not common people, my lord father, Master Tom said they were of the Chosen Guard, the men honored for their efforts during the Great Fires to—”
“Enough.” Pjtor refused to roar at the table, but he felt himself getting close to raising his voice. “Master Tom is in error. About the contents of the books and about the men of what was once called the Chosen Guard. I will explain when you are older.” And I will replace Master Tom. Surely there is a northern monastery that needs an archivist.
Pjtor stuck his lower lip out.
“You may go.”
The boy bowed and went. At least he had wit enough to show proper respect. Pjtor finished his late-morning tea and bread, then stood. He needed to finish that table before the snow came again and interfered with the light in the woodshop.
“How many?” Pjtor needed to be certain he’d heard correctly.
“At least a hundred and fifty, imperial master,” the courier repeated. Pjtor wondered if he was hearing a faint hint of sympathy in the man’s voice as he explained, “Many of the bodies caught in a fishing wall ten kilometers downstream, before the river rose again.”
Godown knows his own, but damn, I need people, people who work and break land and pay taxes. “Did the priest send word as to what caused the suicide?”
“Yes, most gracious imperial master,” the courier reached into his bag and handed Pjtor a sealed page, along with several more packets of letters. “The others are from way-posts along the route.”
“But the road is almost dry, you say?”
“Yes, imperial master. Terribly rutted, must gracious imperial master, but dry.”
“I see. You are dismissed.”
The man bowed low and backed out of the room. Pjtor glanced that the letter packets, then opened the note from the priest. Ugh, can the man even write? Or read? Pjtor was poor at both, but his hand and spelling looked like those of a master scribe compared to the pinched scrawl on the pages. Pjtor stood and took the letter to the window to read it in the warm spring sunlight. His lips moved as he deciphered the text.
“Most imperial majesty, anointed of Godown, little father of believers, greetings. Be advised that your mercy and patience have been abused by the self-styled True Spirits. They have recruited more to their evil, especially on the eastern coast around the mouth of the Grassy River and inland along the Fallbroke River.” Pjtor glanced at the wall map and found the places, both of them tens of kilometers south of Lord Borislov’s lands, then returned to the letter. “Men of the holy church had not visited the area for too long, most imperial majesty, and—”
Pjtor stopped, went to his desk, and added another to his list of complaints to and about Archbishop Adam. Granted, it was not entirely Adam’s fault that Archbishop Nikolas had not sent mission priests out that far south, but someone should have realized that the area was mostly safe and unattended. You know, that makes three times now that I’ve read or heard complaints about the lack of priests on the edges of the empire. Godown will punish us even harder than He is right now for this if it is not corrected immediately. The Writ says that if the shahma seek guidance and the herdsman ignores their need, then ten times the woe of the herd will strike the herdsman. Pjtor returned to the window and the letter.
“Father Tom discovered that the so-called True Spirits had grown in number and wariness, luring free peasants to their false ways and corrupting the district. They still claim to preserve the only proper ways of worship and devotion, including the two-finger sign of blessing and the single ‘Ameen’ following the recitation of the ‘Prayer of the Waters’ during the Liturgy. They have also, most wise imperial majesty, begun praying against the true church and have begun to say that Godown has provided signs of His pending wrath. Rumors of a false teacher abound, one who claims that Godown is sending another wave of warnings and punishments like the Great Fires and will restore freedom and perhaps even technology to the faithful, although there is some uncertainty about the last.
“Most mighty imperial majesty, Father Tom hurried to the nearest road fortress when he had observed this nest of heretics and traitors. Lord Tarnoii had stopped there before returning to his own lands from the south, and agreed that the heretics must be removed or brought back to reason and true belief. He ordered the soldiers to go with him and Father Tom. Imperial majesty, they must have had watchers and allies hiding along the road, because when Father Tom, Lord Tarnoii and the soldiers arrived, they found none in the main village alive save for the livestock. A check of the river revealed a message cut into a tree and downstream, the bodies. All had drowned themselves, claiming that Godown would preserve their souls from corruption.”
Damn, but Tarnoii couldn’t leave matters well enough alone, could he. Pjtor had a sudden thought and scribbled another note, this on stone board with a bit of shalk, so he could erase it if anyone came in. Was Tarnoii positioning himself as a rival to Pjtor? He desperately wanted Arkmandii and Tabor’s lands, and if he were using the heretics as an argument for supplanting Pjtor as the protector of the safety of the church . . . He’d better not be. High noble or not, he’ll swing.
Damn it, but this was the same blasted thing that had happened the first spring after the church council that had recommended the reforms, clearing out novelties and additions to the liturgy and superstitions that had developed over the centuries. At the time Pjtor had not been pleased with how Archbishop Nikolas and Sara had dealt with the schismatics, but he’d not come into his manhood and power until later. After the first wave of suicides, all by drowning, the church had stopped seeking the True Spirits out, instead praying for them to allow Godown to correct their error and return to proper belief. Pjtor still suspected that Godown really did not concern Himself overmuch with how many fingers the priest held up when he made the blessing sign, or how many times the worshippers said “Ameen” following the major and minor prayers. He had more important matters to turn His attention to, like the Harriers and the Turklavi, and great sinners. That the True Spirits had fled to the southern and western frontiers where the Harriers killed and enslaved goodly numbers of them had also encouraged Pjtor and his half-brother to ignore them, despite Archbishop Nikolas’s insistence that Godown would destroy NovRodi if Pjtor failed to extirpate the misguided idiots.
I wonder how many of them really believe that the church has gone into error and how many are foolish, ignorant peasants who have gone so long without a priest to bless, anoint, and serve them that they are desperate for anyone who will minister, especially if the false priest is on scene and available? Probably most of them, poor bastards. I’ve let the shahma of Godown’s herd go untended for too long. Pjtor scribbled a message for the priest acting as messenger to the archbishop’s assistant, and then erased the stone-board and went riding.
The map from the church’s records was—almost literally—damning. Pjtor and Geert studied it, and Geert shook his head. “My lord, no offense intended, but this makes no sense.”
“How so? To me it makes a very plain sense. Priests do not want to leave their comforts to go where they are needed and the bishops are not making them.” With a few notable exceptions, like the area assigned to Bishop Robert of Marshton on the eastern coast, the distribution of priests resembled a bull’s eye centered on Muskava. The farther from the imperial city, the fewer dots appeared on the map, representing filled parishes. One or two Pjtor could understand because the only thing in that area was a monastery and well, how many priests does a monastery need? He could also understand the gaps to the south, because that wou
ld not be formalized into parishes until the next church council, to be held in three weeks. “And there is a shortage of priests, or so it is said.”
“That’s what makes no sense, my lord, at least not to me. Granted, I’m a foreigner and the church is arranged a touch differently in the Sea Republics and to the east, but why are there not more priests? Is there a rule that says some men can only serve as monks but not priests? In a true emergency of life and soul, even a professed Sister of Service can administer final absolutions and first anointings, although those are so rare as to be almost unheard of,” he added quickly.
Pjtor could not imagine one of the convent sisters granting final absolution. How would the man get into the convent? Ah, but remember that the sisters in New Dalfa and other places serve in the world, not through prayer alone. Truly the ways of Godown are strange. And had not the sons of the Chosen Guard found ways to speak with Sara despite her being cloistered? Pjtor shook the thoughts from his mind and returned to the topic at hand. “No, there is nothing in the Writ that says some must become monks and some priests, although in the second Life of St. Ladislas, the younger version, it is said that St. Ladislas counseled most men who came to him to set themselves apart from the world, for most are not strong enough to resist its temptations without the protection of walls and fellows to hold them accountable.” Pjtor stroked his mustache, twisting the end. “But that version is not Writ, nor is it recognized by most as being more than an answer at a very specific time and place, since it coincided with the first Harrier attacks and Ladislas preferred peace to war.” Good thing he was the only one, or there’d be no believers left. Yes, it is easy to avoid fighting if your walls are strong enough and numbers large enough and supplies numerous enough that no one bothers to attack you. That does not apply to most of us.
“Ah. Thank you, my lord. That clarifies something I’d wondered about.”
But it did not answer Geert’s question about the lack of priests. Pjtor sat firmly in his chair in the comfortable private meeting chamber. It neither creaked nor shifted. Finally, people were making things that fit him. Pjtor accepted a mug of hot spiced wine to ward off the wet spring morning air. “There are not enough priests because too many young men are going into the monasteries in order to avoid work and service. Yes, some are truly called to a life of poverty and contemplation. But,” he drank and frowned. “A very large surge in applications for the monasteries took place just before the push to recapture the southern lands. Another surge seems to have begun since the edict of settlement.”
Geert squinted and looked to the left, as if trying to recall what Pjtor meant. “Ah, the requirement for families with more than two able-bodied sons to send one to the south with the army or to farm the new lands for at least three years, in exchange for reduced taxes.”
“Yes.”
“And there is an exemption for men in the church, my lord.”
“Yes.”
Geert smiled a little with his mouth but not his eyes. “And a brief check of the applications to the monasteries showed a most unusually high number of third and fourth sons with vocations that only appeared recently.”
“Yes.” Pjtor frowned. “Enough so that two of the larger houses have asked their bishops for exemptions from taking new brothers for the next year or two, until space opens up or they obtain new lands.”
Geert raised one eyebrow. “And I take it they do not mean new lands in the south, my lord?”
“No. Which is another matter I intend to discuss with the church council because it centers on land distribution and taxes.” Pjtor finished his wine and cradled the empty mug in his hands. “You read what Looven copied.”
“Yes, my lord.” Pjtor waved and Geert sat. After Pjtor took a refill on the hot wine, Geert accepted a mug. “It seems that the church’s claims about how much land they possessed at the time of the Fires and the flight from the Harriers, hmmm, have expanded with the years, at least those houses close to Muskava and Hornand.”
“Precisely. Godown provided the church with resources to survive, and donating to provide for those who pray for Godown’s grace and mercy is commendable. However, it worries me that those sworn to poverty and separation from the world possess greater wealth than does the crown.” He raised his eyebrows and asked, “How does the church keep priests from being too wealthy in the Sea Republics?”
Geert shifted in his chair and studied the ceiling as he tried to remember. “Ah, I don’t know, my lord. Although it is—ah, priests do not stay in one place their entire lives, nor do they join monasteries. Some of the bishops do have a great deal of wealth, and I recall many years ago, when I was a boy, several priests in the parishes around New Dalfa complained to the episcopal council about their bishop living too comfortably while others suffered after a glitterwing swarm in Frankonia and the western Thumb. But funds go to the parish, not the priest, and he’s not supposed to take things with him when he moves. And Godown allows the sale of excess vessels and vestments in times of emergency. I have heard of such a thing being done once, in Hämäl, after plague and such a hard winter that the ice cut the city off for almost a year. The patrician and bishop agreed and sold platters and basins and four seawolf jaws, using the funds to buy grain and livestock as well as earth coal and earth oil for heating because the wood supplies had been exhausted, along with the city’s reserves of earth coal. Godown forbid such things happen here.”
“Ameen.” He started to ask another question and realized he had trouble holding his mug. His fingers did not want to obey, and the light from the windows shifted, swaying and turning colors. The feeling of peace came over Pjtor and he closed his eyes. He felt someone removing the mug before he dropped it, and Geert’s hands on his shoulder, holding him in the chair as the world faded away.
He woke lying on a bench, his head throbbing. Geert’s voice said, “And that’s when I sent for you, your imperial grace.”
“Thank you, Master Geert. You are right, he has not had a spell so bad in many months. You may go.” A door opened and closed quietly, and Pjtor felt Alsice’s cool fingers on his forehead. “My lord husband, can you drink?”
The words made the pain worse and he wanted to scream at her for making noise. Instead he whispered, “Yes.”
“This is hot salibark with one half grain of poppy tincture. And a slice of fever root, in case you decide you want more poppy,” she warned.
Ugh, no I do not. Fever root spread the effects of poppy over a longer time but the taste made salibark almost palatable. She helped him sit up a little and a servant handed him the cup. He drank as fast as he could but still tasted too much. Godown take me home please, just to get the taste out of my mouth. He allowed the servant to help him lay back down, his head in Alsice’s lap. She massaged his forehead and temples, wiping them with cool water scented with lemon and something soothing. He fell asleep and did not wake until late afternoon.
The attack was obviously a sign. So was the news that arrived from the west and north the following week. An earth shake had struck the northwestern forests, shaking two settlements until the houses fell apart and turning the ground in what had been a marsh into a lake while raising a hill on the other side of the marsh roughly three meters. The hunters and animals all shunned the new lake because it smelled of sulfur. And the Harriers had attacked along the western edge, not taking captives but driving off livestock and burning any building they could ignite. Lord Tabor had been injured and suffered from either a mild case of wound fever or a recurrence of the summer fever, the one caused by bad smells and the air of stagnant, low places where blood-biters congregated.
Three signs marked the limit of Godown’s patience, everyone knew that. The Fires had come three times before the last technology failed, and the Harriers had been seen three times before they overran the southern lands the first time, driving the people of NovRodi north into the swamps and forests. Pjtor sent Archbishop Adam a letter stating that he would be attending the church council to confer with
the clergy on the best ways to deal with the heretics and the shortage of priests.
Pjtor listened to the babble as the nobles all tried to voice their objections at the same time. After letting them interrupt and speak over each other for a minute or two, he raised his hand. Absolute silence.
“In order.” He pointed to Tarnoii.
“Imperial majesty, are the records trustworthy? Clerks make errors, especially when rushed.”
Pjtor pointed to Lord Mike Karlov-Boison, the nephew of Pjtor’s late former father-in-law and current lord of the Boison lands. The redhead nodded. “As Lord Tarnoii says, are the records correct? I beg your pardon and mercy, imperial majesty, but is it risking my soul on an error to agree that the church’s claims are far weaker than anyone had suspected?”
“It would be had I not seen the originals myself.” He pointed to the next noble.
Karlinov the Younger nodded. “That is all I ask, imperial majesty. Are the books correct?”
As they worked around the council of nobles, only Lord Broislov from the eastern coast had a different concern. “Imperial majesty, my lords, perhaps the records mean that the funds from the lands are to go to the church to be redistributed as aid, rather than for the upkeep of the monasteries on the lands?”
Pjtor thought as the other nobles murmured. “It appears that while that is probably what should have been done, that is not what was originally intended. You do make a good point, and one that is worthy of including in our proposal to the church. To deprive the church of income is a grave offense to Godown. But to encourage false vocations and to tempt the weak to refuse the duties Godown has given to all men is also an offense.” And setting aside a portion of the land’s income, say Godown’s Portion plus another half of that, would soften the blow if the council decided to act on the records. He hummed something he’d learned when sailing to New Dalfa, setting the idea so it wouldn’t disappear.